


Take Me To Church

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Church of the Black Klok, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Metalocalypse s3, Metalocalypse s4, Post-Doomstar Requiem, References to Depression, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2019-10-02 01:04:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17254730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: Prophecies are always open to interpretation, and often have more than one meaning. Or: The events of seasons three and four from Charles’ perspective.





	1. ~ prologue ~ that deathless death ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles begins to learn what it means to be the Dead Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Set:** Season 3. All of it. Yeah, you heard me!  
>  **Disclaimer:** I own nothing. 
> 
> This whole thing started as a vague short on what it kind of downsides might come with a title like the Dead Man, and then grew into this ravening monster of a story with chapters and everything. Each one (including prologue and epilogue) comes with an extremely not metal song, because I used them as general prompts to help keep myself on track... I tend to have a short attention span when it comes to writing long stories. Anyway, feel free to not listen to them if they’re not to your taste.
> 
>  **Chapter song:** Take Me to Church by Hozier. Mostly for the “deathless death” line. And maybe that bit about “my church offers no absolution.”

**_You've mastered death  
_** **_You've mastered fear  
_** **_You are transformed  
_ ** ******_You are stronger_**

 

 

The first time Charles had a premonition it was gentle, insistent… deceptively easy. He suddenly just knew they needed him and where, so he left the Church of the Black Klok to made sure that Dethklok didn’t sign the garbage can of a contract that Roy’s hellspawn son had put in front of them. After the concert, he made sure to earmark a portion of the proceeds for curing the label head’s terminal illness in order to keep Damien from seizing control again.

Somewhere in all that he began to realize there was a price to being the Dead Man, to being Dethklok’s prophesied guide and protector. As the title suggested, he didn’t have a life. All of his existence had boiled down to being a gear in the wheel of the Klok — an important one, but still just a gear. Everything felt as though he experienced it from a distance. He never felt lost or sad or angry or afraid. Even when his mind entertained those emotions, his body might as well have been a million miles away. There was no physical reaction. To anything.

~

The second time he had a premonition, Charles was in the middle of a conference call when his body suddenly convulsed with hunger cramps that weren’t his. Phantom exhaustion pressed against his eyes and temples, and his blood felt hot in his veins because it was _bullshit_ , it was all miserable _bullshit._

Luckily he hadn’t been speaking and the feeling quickly passed, leaving only the knowledge of where to go. He was able to end the conference call early without ruffling any important feathers and head to Pontiac with all the foods the boys liked.

Unfortunately, by the time the limo pulled up behind the convention center where the Mental Health Alliance benefit was being held, Charles still had no idea what to say. He tried, but all he got for his trouble was both Nathan and Pickles snapping at him.

"Well uh, you don't sound fine,” he told them. "You sound agitated. Hungry. Miserable.” He’d carefully taken notes on what the full-body portent had felt like, but was dismayed to hear himself merely reciting the list he’d made. “… Anyway the reason I'm here is that I caught wind that Thunderhorse is doing a health benefit. You realize tonight is your uh, Chefs from around the World Taste Test Party?”

Blatant bribery didn’t work either. Charles gave up, but waited near the venue in one of the helicopters in case they changed their minds on their own. When they did, he knew it probably had nothing to do with anything he’d said.

That night he left the Mordhaus control room in the hands of the competent evening shift and retreated to his rooms and called a number he had been instructed to use if he had any questions. The first thing he said once the call connected was, “You mentioned that I would be more connected to the band than before. Now tell me about the fine print.”

“This is not the time,” Ishnifus replied calmly, apparently unperturbed by the late hour. It was as if the High Holy Priest had already known to expect his call, just another prophesy to observe as it came to pass. “Charles, please. I understand your unease, but you must adjust to this in your own way. The chosen ones must come into their powers on their own; so must you.”

“Fine,” Charles replied briskly. He wished he could muster enough emotion to actually sound annoyed, but it never seemed to reach his voice anymore. “Then what _can_ you tell me?”

“Only that you must remember the meditation techniques we taught you here. It will help keep you centered in the storms to come."

The cryptic advice did nothing to improve his mood. More information was always better than less; if he could just know why these things were happening, he could adjust his expectations and react accordingly. As it was, he was in the dark with his hands tied, trying to walk some sort of tightrope maze with no prior training.

After hanging up he decided to take a shower, as if he could somehow wash the day’s episode off with hot water and soap. Lots of hot water… Lately he’d begun to feel as though a door had been left open somewhere and let in things no normal man was supposed to know, things he needed to know in order to fulfill his role as the Dead Man. But the open door also let in a chill, and all Charles understood about that was that his soul had been cast away from his body by the Half Man and the Church of the Black Klok had put it back.

Sometimes, he wondered if his soul had been completely reattached or if pieces of it were still flapping loose in the cosmic wind.

~

The third time was like a bang through the roof of his mouth through to the back of his skull. His eyes watered with the intensity of it, to the point where he had to remove his glasses and press a handkerchief against his face and hope, really fucking hope, that applying pressure might make the pain recede a little.

After a moment he picked up his dethphone and called Nathan’s security detail. As soon as someone on the other end of the line picked up he snapped, “Where is he?”

An hour later he was walking along the outskirts of the hunting expedition’s base camp and heard the shot go off. Without thinking, without caring that his head still pounded with the effort, he ran towards it and eventually found a traumatized Nathan wandering around in the woods with spattered dentist blood drying across his face. Charles didn’t have to ask, didn’t have to see the body to know it was suicide.

He radioed the nearest team of Klokateers to come pick them up. Then he took the hunting rifle from Nathan’s unresisting hand, sat the big man down on a nearby rock, and pulled the same handkerchief he’d used earlier out of his pocket. “Spit,” he said gently, holding it out.

Nathan slowly moved his eyes up to meet his manager’s, then obediently spat. There was no ‘What the fuck are you doing here’ or any of the usual resistance he might have expected, just a dazed vulnerability that should have been touching to see, if Charles could feel that sort of thing anymore. _He must be in shock,_ Charles thought. _I should say something. Reassure him._

He tried for a moment to think of anything comforting to say. The fact that he couldn’t was just depressing.

“For the record,” he told him as he wiped the dampened cloth down the bridge of Nathan’s nose and around his eye, “you tried.”

Maybe it was the familiar phrasing, or maybe just the flat tone of his delivery, but the words seemed to jerk the other man back to reality. Squinting, Nathan pulled away from the handkerchief to glare and wipe at his own face with the back of his hand. “I didn’t do anything,” he grumbled. "Dentists are weird people.”

 _So much for shock_ , Charles thought with a sigh. He put the now blood-stained handkerchief away. His head still throbbed dully and the thing about being around Nathan — any of the boys, really, but especially him — was that he felt painfully hollow. Before he’d died there had always been a kind of exasperated fondness, a little warmth of affection in his chest whenever he had to deal with the aftermath of their antics, but now even that feeling was gone. And now Nathan was giving him that oddly intense look that he sometimes did whenever Charles got a little more hands-on than usual, but where before that would have made his pulse jump guiltily at his own unprofessionalism there was... nothing. Just like in Michigan in that dirty alley behind the benefit venue, Nathan didn’t even seem to want him there.

There was a rumble of helicopter rotors from above. Charles looked up for the team of Klokateers he’d summoned, the ones that in hindsight he could have just ordered to find Nathan in the first place instead of doing it himself.

When they were safely back at Mordhaus, Charles locked himself in his office and poured a sinfully expensive glass of brandy with hands as steady as solid stone in spite of the pounding in his head. _I could have gone on the professional poker circuit instead of coming back here,_ he thought, and chucked humorlessly before taking his first sip. It wasn’t funny because, any day now, someone would look him in the eye — the window to the soul — and see the nothing behind the panes.

In an effort to avoid that dark train of thought, he got up to turn the lights off (thank god no one had gotten around to installing that scream activated lighting in any of his rooms) and press the button that closed the blinds on the bank of windows behind his desk. With both the overhead lights and all the lamps off, he sat at his desk chair and contemplated his brandy for a while. Outside, the clouds drifted by. He took slow, natural breaths and watched the slight patterns of shadows on shadows moving across his desk like ghosts.

It had been a good idea to take Mordhaus up into the sky after the attack, he’d always thought so. It’s what he would have done. Maybe what he should have done earlier, to prevent a ground attack like the one that he’d died in — but no, there was no point in thinking that way either. Ishnifus had told him that certain things had needed to happen, had been foretold ages ago, and in a certain order. Plus, it took a special kind of mind, or group of them, to think of turning the entire complex into a floating fortress.

He sighed and took another sip of brandy. “No rest for the wicked,” he muttered out loud to himself. It was time to get back to work.

Charles opened his laptop, dialing the screen brightness levels down as low as possible. Indifferently, he opened a new file and began customizing the standard condolences-and-Dethklok-is-in-no-way-responsible letter for the dentist’s next of kin.

~

The next time Charles had a premonition, and the next time, and the next, he either kept his distance and sent Klokateers to handle things, or spoke to the boys remotely. After a while he started to get used to it. Besides, there was so much to do; he couldn’t be impulsive and rush off to deal with every little problem, not when he had the ability to either delegate or simply make a video call. Paternity suits had to be handled. Murderface’s restraining orders had to be managed. Preparations had to be made if Mordhaus was ever going to return to land, as he knew it must.

Sure, it stung a little that the band didn’t really object to his absence, but he couldn’t bring himself to get worked up about it. Not because it’s what he would have expected from them anyway (which he had), but because he felt so removed from everything, like an imposter in his own skin. Like he deserved the distance, somehow. Because on top of being the Dead Man, he could never think of anything to say that sounded like a living, feeling human being had said it.

Like that time he’d been trapped in the Dethlimo with Skwisgaar and couldn’t stop saying stupid, unhelpful shit about fathers. _‘My father had strong hands.’_ What the hell? He could no longer even remember if that was true.

But the longer Charles spent holding the band at a distance, the more irritating they became. He could hardly believe his ears when they started talking about autoerotic asphyxiation as an alternative to Pickles drinking or doing drugs. The fact that they were hammered during this conversation didn’t help matters.

“God, live a little bit Grandma!” Murderface snapped at him when he tried to get them back on track.

“I’m trying—“ He took a deep breath and tried, for some reason, to appeal to logic by pointing out, “It’s an embarrassing death. You always have to color it differently in the media.”

Of course, they kept disagreeing with him just to be contrary, because that was their nature. Charles wrapped up the meeting as quickly as they would allow and left to make sure that Pickles’ bags were all packed for rehab. He sincerely doubted that it would stick. Halfway to his office he was overtaken by a powerful sensation of vertigo, and when he regained his sense of balance he knew for sure that Pickles would be drinking again by the time they played their first Australia concert. On the plus side, the rest of the band wouldn’t get blown up by a renegade drum machine. These things, he was beginning to understand, generally worked themselves out without his interference.

~

Maybe it was the vacation incident. Technically it was Toki’s fault, spending the entire vacation fund on the damn clown’s umpteenth reunion attempt that Charles didn’t even need a premonition to tell him wouldn’t go well… But Charles was the one who had to say the money was gone, that even a good Act of God clause could only do so much. Charles was the one who had to sit there and confirm, individually, that no they couldn’t go to Disneyland. No they couldn’t go to Euro Disney. No they couldn’t go to Asia Disney. No they couldn’t go to Disney World, or take that side trip to Harry Potter World Florida, or hang out with their big-eared pal Mickey.

He was the one who had to say, "Well, it's not happening. You're going to have to stay here.”

Nathan pinned him with a glare so petulant that, if Charles hadn’t been so frustrated, would have been almost endearing, in a violent sort of way. Then the conversation shifted back to Dr. Rockso’s many failings and he was once again ignored completely. He waited for a while, then left the conference room without further comment and no one objected. It gave him a head start on texting Twinkletits to set up a session for Toki and arrange for a new Facebones segment on ticket scalping, a whole thirty seconds before the rhythm guitarist started screaming about bicentennial quarters.

Whatever it was, Charles found himself buried more and more in his work and spent less and less time around the band. In some ways it was a relief. He generally knew when something was going badly wrong enough that they actually needed help, and usually it was things the Klokateers could handle. It was easier to retreat into work whenever they tried to talk him into palling around. He’d proven himself to be awkward in social situations enough by now, and as far as he was concerned he’d become even worse at it since dying.

And his patience was starting to fray at the edges. Too much of his old life was chafing at this new one, and the worst part was that to everyone else there didn’t seem to be any difference between the two.

~

It was after canceling the one weekend of hanging out that the boys had talked him into. That’s when all hell broke loose. He had just overseen the delivery of seventy million units of Dethkones — which he didn’t entirely understand, just knew they would be very important sometime soon — when the United Nations called.

“Oh.” Charles paused, then added for his new assistant’s benefit, "Generally, it's not good to receive a phone call from the, uh, United Nations…"

The next thing he knew, his blood was practically boiling. Outside the premonitions, it was the most physical sensation he’d experienced since becoming the Dead Man. Israel and Syria? Of all the possible double bookings, it had to be _Israel and Syria_?

“Yes,” he told the Secretary General of the UN, trying not to grind his teeth. It was an old habit that he thought had been laid to rest along with his past life, and he knew from experience it would only lead to a tension headache later. “Yes, I can see how that would be a serious problem. I understand. I’ll take care of it. Yes, go ahead and schedule that with my assistant. I’ll get back to you shortly.”

He passed the phone to his assistant, who took it gingerly as if worried it might explode, and stormed off. Somehow he already sensed exactly where to find them, and the long walk from the loading dock observation platform to the main living room did nothing to cool his temper. He kicked the tv off as he passed the couch, glad for once of the stupid foot pedal system that Pickles had insisted on years ago because it meant he didn’t have to root around in the couch cushions for a remote. When he rounded on them and spoke, his words came out even but haltingly with the force of his outrage.

“Did you. Book a gig. In Syria. Without telling me?”

“Why are you yelling at usch?” Murderface protested. The rest of the band looked vaguely guilty just from their manager’s tone, and Pickles and Nathan were both avoiding eye contact already. Presumably the other three were still catching up.

“Get up,” Charles insisted in the same level voice. “We’re going to the control room.”

He waited with his arms stiffly at his sides while they slowly got out of the hot tub. By the time they’d all found their towels not one of five would look him in the eye. Even if they didn’t understand the full gravity of the problem yet, they knew they were in trouble when he didn’t try to hassle them into moving faster.

Ishnifus’ words came back to him, unbidden. " _You must remember the meditation techniques we taught you here. It will help keep you centered…”_

Charles ignored the thought, turning on his heel as soon as they were decently covered and heading down the hallway. He remained silent all the way to the control room, where he didn’t even have to bark an order; the main screen was already streaming the relevant news clips. After letting them watch, dripping chlorine water on the cold metal floor, for a few minutes until it sunk in, he gestured for the sound to be put on mute.

"You double booked a gig on the exact same date with Syria and Israel,” he snapped. “Who are bitter enemies!”

Toki swallowed hard. "You ams pissed off because—“

"Becausche we're fat!” Murderface interjected.

Blowing right past the bassist’s ridiculous statement as per usual and taking the lead, Nathan said, "We didn't know we were doing something bad because you weren't there.” He met Charles’ eyes for the first time, a slight glint of angry defiance in his gaze. It flickered and died in the full force of the other man’s cold stare, and he tried to backpedal. "I mean, can't we cancel it?”

“No,” Charles replied harshly, "we can't cancel it.” He turned, then shot a parting glare over his shoulder. "Nice work, guys.”

As he walked away, his new assistant having tracked him down again and following doggedly at his heels, he heard Pickles bemoaning how stupid they’d been. _Too late_ , Charles thought. “Now,” he murmured, "the question is, how do we avoid starting World War III?”

“I… don’t know, my lord,” 5722 offered lamely.

“I wasn’t asking you,” Charles said absently. “Call a full staff meeting right now, with a science team follow-up in an hour. We need to make sure everyone understands the stakes here. This can’t be allowed to hurt either Dethklok’s reputation or record sales.”

A plan was starting to form in his head, and he was starting to see where the snow cones fit into that.

~

Charles realized he’d gone too far when he asked for a headcount of the band — second time that week — and had his suspicions confirmed by the surveillance monitors. Not only had Dethklok run away, but they’d left a very short goodbye note along with all of their wallets and winter coats which they’d forgotten to take.

He’d yelled at them to get out, and they’d actually listened.

“I’m going to go find them myself,” he announced. “Get one of the helicopters ready. 5722, you’re with me. The rest of you, keep everything moving forward as scheduled.”

As soon as they were in the hall, he stopped walking but waved his assistant on.

“I’ll meet you there in five minutes. I… need to make a phone call.”

It wasn’t a call he was looking forward to. In fact, he was vaguely aware that he’d been putting it off for some time now, but how he’d felt since hearing about the double booking made it necessary — a simmering, dangerous feeling. He dialed, turning and speed walking down a different hallway. It was a different route with the same destination, just longer and more private.

Again, he didn’t wait for Ishnifus to say anything before he asked his question. Not the question that he was trying (failing) to keep a tight lid on, though.

“How do I find them?” Charles demanded.

The High Holy Priest sounded as patient as ever when he replied. “You should know that, Charles. You have found them before.”

“This is different. I don't… I can’t feel where they are.”

He felt his skin prickle, and if it were possible he would have thought that the priest was staring through the phone connection at him. Staring right into his tattered soul, flapping edges and all as he continued towards the hanger.

“You have not been meditating,” Ishnifus commented softly. Not a question.

“I… No. I, uh, haven’t.”

“Why not?”

Anger flared up again, hot in his chest. How long had he been used to feeling cold and emotionless? Because he wasn’t now. “I don’t have _time_ , that’s why. Whenever I’m not looking through legal documents or heading up security, I’m down in the damn basement trying to get answers from those blueprints you had me steal. I barely have time to sleep, and you’re not telling me any of what I need to know in order to do my job!”

“Such as?” Ishnifus asked calmly.

“Such as how much time we have before things start to happen! And what I’m supposed to be doing to prepare! I’m supposed to keep them safe and guide them to their destiny, but how can I do that if I barely know what it is?”

“That is not for you to know now,” the older man said, and this time his voice had grown hard and flinty, reminding Charles that he wasn’t dealing with some record mogul or member of the press who could be intimidated into submission. "Now, if you are to find them you must hurry. Center yourself. Once you reach a state of effortless presence you will be able to sense them again."

Then the old man hung up on him. Somehow, that surprised Charles more than anything. It had been a long time since he’d become too important to hang up on, and he wasn’t as used to the slight as he had been in Dethklok’s early days. He blinked, forced himself to take deep breaths, and quickened his pace. With each step the bubbling anger was replaced by the more familiar warmth of physical exertion, gradually helping to clear his head.

It didn’t matter that the band had pissed him off. He needed to find them and make things right. Wasn’t that what he had been saying earlier to 5722, right before the Surgeon General’s call?

_‘Managing this band is the hardest thing you'll ever do in your life. You won't be thanked for your work. No one will remember your birthday. People will take you for granted…_

Charles broke into a run.

_‘And ultimately, you'll know that it simply needs to be done._

_‘It's the most rewarding thing you'll ever do._

_‘It's something worth dying for.’_

_~_

He almost melted with relief when he felt it — though, of course, the relief was only in his head. Maybe it was better that way, because a full body reaction might have left him embarrassingly weak in the knees. And apparently things didn’t go so well when he felt rather than thought, these days. Charles was trying not to question that, still biting back on what he hadn’t dared to ask the priest over the phone. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

The important thing was that he knew where Dethklok was. He could even sense, in a vague, dreamlike sort of way, where they had been. Hitching a ride in a train car, scavenging in the woods for berries that made them vomit all over themselves… At least he didn’t have to follow that undoubtedly fragrant part of the trail, he just had to keep watching the topography readout and pinpoint his sense of them to the actual location, so the chopper could land.

Although, contrary as ever, the boys were on a boat.

Charles took deep breaths as he stepped down from the rope ladder and walked across the deck to the five huddled men. The cold air bit into his lungs, with little bursts of frigid moisture on his tongue whenever he inhaled a snowflake. He felt centered again. Good. Like he was doing what he needed to be doing.

He walked up to them and stopped, only a few feet away.

"I'm sorry I've been so busy,” he began. "And I see what that's done to all of you. I want you to know you're all very important. To me.”

There, that was the really important part. Now to smooth out one of the more critical wrinkles.

"And, Toki, you don't need to hit people to get their attention. Everybody likes you, thinks you're really cool... _I_ think you're really cool.”

Predictably, Toki jumped up and launched himself at Charles. Luckily he had time to brace himself so the rhythm guitarist wouldn't knock him over. "Uh, there, there. Uh-huh,” he said, knowing that it wasn’t the words Toki would take comfort in so much as the gesture of patting him on the back.

The rest of the band was still crouched on the deck, faces drawn from cold and exhaustion. Of them all, Nathan still looked the most surly. That would be another wrinkle to address, but it could probably wait a little longer.

"There's a bigger matter at hand,” Charles continued, raising his voice and giving them each a significant, measured look. "We have the opportunity to save thousands of lives. But I can't do it alone.”

One by one, they stood stiffly. Pickles wandered over first, then Murderface, then Skwisgaar, and they joined the group hug much the way they often verbally piled on to a particular idea or thread of insults. Nathan was last, and Charles could tell he was still grumpy. The front man had probably had the first and final word about running away, he guessed, and wasn’t one to back down from that kind of decision lightly. Well, it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the aftermath of kicking Magnus out of the band...

They held the group hug longer than he would expected, probably because it was warmer that way. After a moment Charles started extracting himself.

“Come on. We have a show to put on. And,” he added, “there are warm blankets and hot toddies waiting in the Dethcopter. Let’s get you warmed up.”

“Robaht,” Pickles mumbled.

“Right back to buschinesch,” Murderface agreed, but there was a kind of camaraderie in it that Charles actually felt a part of, for once.

It felt good.


	2. ~ chapter 1 ~ all i can do is keep breathing ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thought he’d been getting used to being the Dead Man... He had only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Set:** Season 4, eps 1-2 (Fanklok, Diversityklok).  
>  **Disclaimer:** I own nothing.
> 
> Each chapter is also based on the little snippets of prophecy from the beginnings of certain episodes. Clearly they apply to the band and the forces surrounding them... but they apply to Charles, too. Prophecies tend to be multifaceted that way.
> 
>  **Chapter song:** Keep Breathing by Ingrid Michaelson.

**_As the prophecy foretold,_ **

**_they licked their wounds_ **

**_and returned from the air to the earth._ **

  
  
  


_ "That's my bread and butter you're fucking with." _

Charles shot upright in bed, covered in a sheen of sweat. But his breathing wasn't labored, his heart wasn't pounding — it was hot in the room, that was all. The weather had gotten a little strange everywhere after the Israel Syria concert, and there were still bugs in the programing of Mordhaus' vast climate control system that needed to be fixed. Today, it seemed it was overcompensating for the forecasted snow.

In the dark, he groped for his phone to send a notification to the technical services department. Even as he did so he was already thinking back to the part-dream, part-memory he'd just woken up from, a half heard fragment from just before he'd... Well, lapsed into unconsciousness and died.

He wondered why Nathan had phrased it that way. Charles remembered saying the same when he'd rescued Skwisgaar and Toki once. It had been the same attacker, so that made sense. But Nathan hadn't been anywhere near them at the time. Unless one of the guitarists had recounted the tale, which he supposed was possible, but... the guys didn't really talk about emotional things, and a near death experience probably qualified as emotional.

This wasn't the first time he'd thought about it. He had the dream every now and then, as if some asshole god somewhere up in the heavens thought he needed reminding of what he'd been through. As if he didn't remember every day. Even little things, like not needing his glasses anymore — he'd had to order new frames with just plain glass to replace his old lenses, just so he could at least look more himself. Glasses had been a part of his self-image ever since his first prescription back in third grade. He could still feel the difference though. The fakes felt too light on his face.

Since he was already awake, Charles rolled out of bed and began to prepare for the day. It was around dawn, but a glance out the window told him that while the moon had gone down and the stars beginning to fade, the sun had yet to break through the horizon of cloud cover that Mordhaus was hovering level with. For now.

Today was going to be a big day, and it had to go off without a fucking hitch.

Wearing only loose pajama pants and a thin cotton shirt, he stepped out onto his private balcony and sank slowly into the first pose of his morning routine. The chill of the outside air felt good on his skin. Lengthening his spine, releasing the tension in his neck and shoulders, he focused on his breathing and rolling through the different motions until the dream melted fully away and left him calm, centered, balanced.

"HEEEEEEEEY!"

Charles fought the urge to roll his eyes and continued his stretches,

"HEEEEY, AHFDENSEN!"

He moved slowly through the final vinyasa sequence, took a deep breath, then turned and craned his neck back to look up at the Haus. Sure enough, Pickles was half hanging out of one of the upper windows a floor or two up.

"Yes, Pickles?" he called back.

"Heeeeeey!" Pickles replied. Then he waved.

Charles returned the wave. "Good morning. Is there something I can, ah, help you with? Before you fall out of that window?"

"Morning? Dood, it's still nighttime!"

"Alright. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Nah, I'm alright," Pickles yelled back, "but have you seen Nathan? He was lookin' for ya earlier."

It wasn't surprising that the boys had been up all night. There was still plenty of time for them to nap off whatever they'd had, and if coffee IV drips were in order then that's what would happen. But it was a bit surprising to hear that Nathan was looking for him, and that none of the Klokateers had paged him awake to let him know. Perhaps the frontman had passed out before he'd been able to ask.

Charles shook his head. "No, but I'll look for him. Thank you, Pickles."

"Heh, no prahblem Charlie. And dood, I won't tell the guys you were doing ballet or whatever, okie?" Pickles gave him a wobbly solute with a bottle of what appeared to be vodka, which took that opportunity to slip from his grasp. The bottle hurtled past Charles' balcony to the earth below, where it would undoubtedly kill at least one person and possibly maim a few more. Luckily, Pickles did manage to pull himself clumsily back inside without further incident.

Shaking his head, Charles returned to his room. He took a brief moment to text a memo out to all employees about checking the safety latches on all the windows. Especially the ones above his personal quarters.  _ Ballet indeed, _ he thought with the ghost of a smirk. Then he took a quick shower and got dressed for the day.

~

Around half past noon, Nathan stumbled blearily into his office. Charles had made sure he was alerted when the frontman woke, and speed walked from the inner bowels of Mordhaus up to his office in order to arrive first. He knew all the most direct back passageways so well that he was able to keep most of his attention on his phone the entire time, switching from secret intel gathering to his managerial duties by replying to emails.

He looked up from a photo op request for Murderface — who was always in need of some good PR no matter what day of the week it was — as Nathan dropped into the seat opposite his desk.

"Good afternoon. What can I, ah, do for you?"

Nathan directed a bloodshot glare his way. "I was looking for you last night."

Charles inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, not sure if he was on safe footing here even though the conversation was just getting started. Whatever Nathan wanted, his body language seemed to suggest that a fight might be in there somewhere.

"I believe I was asleep by then," he replied carefully. "Thank you for, ah, not waking me up. I appreciate that."

The compliment made the larger man pause, and possibly forget what he had planned to say next. "Uh... yeah." Then his frown deepened. "Look, if you're just being patronizing and you really still just hate us, you'd better say so now. And not the next time you get pissed off again, like an asshole."

"I..." It was Charles' turn to blink dumbly at that for a second. "Nathan, I don't hate you. I'm very sorry for yelling at you and making you feel like you should run away. Really," he added, feeling like it was a lame way to end the apology but, hey, it wasn't like he'd been expecting this to come up again. 

Nathan squinted him at suspiciously. "Are you talking about  _ me _ , or the band?"

Of course, Charles had been meaning to talk to Nathan one on one at some point, give him the same kind of brief there-there pep talk he'd given Toki that night before the double booked show, but there had been so much work to do... And apparently, making time to hang out with the band as a whole a few days a month hadn't cut it.

"Because," Nathan continued, "just because I decided and I left the note, that doesn't mean it's all my fault... They came with me, we were  _ all _ in on it."

"I don't hate any of you," Charles said firmly. "And out of all of you, I, ah, appreciate your willingness to come back the most. It means a lot. To me." His fake glasses were starting to slide down his nose a little. Primly, he pushed them back into place to try and cover how out of his depth he was here. Personal matters were not really his forte, and talking about them even less so.

The big man glared at him for another moment before dropping his gaze, relaxing subtly into his chair. "Okay. Good. I'm glad we, uh. Had this talk. Good job."

That was probably as close to a 'sorry we almost started World War III' as Charles would ever get, which was fine. It was actually more than he had been expecting, so he was happy to accept.

"No problem," he replied, attempting a warm smile. If only he were any good at them. Well, he'd always tried to make up for that with an open door policy as far as the boys were concerned — which was why on several occasions in the past they  _ had _ woken him up in the middle of the night to deal with some inane problem or another. "All we can do is keep moving forward, Nathan. Anyway, was there anything else on your mind? Anything you wanted to chat about?"

Nathan let out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. "Man, you're just not good at trying to sound cool. Um... But yeah there was one thing." He hunched forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. "There's this girl in my room... I think I want her to be my girlfriend."

"Oh. Okay." Charles wasn't sure why Nathan was bringing this up with him, if all people. Did he want advice? Because if so, he'd really picked the wrong guy to ask. "I... take it she's interested, then?"

"Well, yeah, considering I just fucked her last night, yeah." Nathan held up his hand. "Four and a half times. She was super into it."

"That's... good to know."

"Yeah. Anyway, just wanted to give you a heads up, 'cause, you know, the press'll be asking questions about it and you're the one who answers that sort of stuff. If you run out of things to tell them you can always talk about the four and a half times. And, uh, the half was 'cause she sucked me off, not because I got tired and fell asleep in the middle or anything. In case you were wondering."

Charles merely nodded. If they'd had this conversation before he'd died, he would have felt differently. Back when his body reacted to things like the unavoidable mental image of Nathan with a girl between his legs. The image still came through loud and clear, but at least now he was spared the discomfort of trying not to blush or surreptitiously wiping sweaty palms on his suit trousers. Really, he was  _ so _ the wrong guy to talk to about girlfriends.

But everything had a silver lining, even being the Dead Man. In that moment, he appreciated that as much as he appreciated Nathan actually letting him know about something like this before it hit the press.

"Oh and yeah, I'm going to need one of those, uh. Backstage pass things. For her. For the Back to Earth concert tonight."

"Alright." Charles picked up a notepad and jotted down some notes. "I probably won't have to get into specifics, but thank you for the, ah, heads up. And sure, we can make a backstage pass happen. What's her name?"

"Uhhhhh... " A goofy smile spread across the frontman's face, which made Charles' eyebrow shoot up at the open display of infatuation. "Trindle," Nathan announced, sounding extremely proud of himself for remembering.

There was a time when Charles would have felt insanely jealous about all of this. 

Once, the first time he’d worn a red tie in Nathan’s presence, the hulking young man had stared broodingly at him for a while before saying, “Red looks good on you.” He’d worn nothing but red ties ever since.

Once, right after a show that went really well but, due to a nearly conflicting scheduling snafu, they had to leave  _ immediately _ afterwards, Charles had rounded up all of the band members except Nathan. Eventually he had found the wayward lead singer in the backstage bathroom, even though they had plenty of restrooms on the Dethcopter. He’d pushed one of the metal doors in to see Nathan with his jeans pooled around his ankles, hunched over as he attended to a massive hard-on. The manager remembered swallowing hard at the same time as he thought,  _ We don’t have time for this. _ So he’d… helped speed things along. Nathan had given him an odd look afterwards, but at least everything had stayed on schedule. He’d had to do some attending of his own as soon as everyone was onboard the Dethcopter and he could lock himself in his office, a miniature of his domain at Mordhaus. 

Charles remembered all of it. The racing of his pulse, heat pooling in his lower belly, butterflies in his stomach. (Butterflies, he’d explained to the boys once, that actually represented the spleen gushing out extra blood cells in anticipation of a fight or flight response, to carry more oxygen to muscles in case of necessary exertion. That’s where the idea for the song  _ Blood-erflies _ had started, only in the music video they’d look more like wasps.) There had never been any question of acting on it, though, because it was Nathan fucking Explosion. A client. A metal god to millions of screaming female groupies. So Charles had compartmentalized it, because he was good at that. Even the line between legal and illegal was blurrier than the one he had drawn between his public and private lives. 

Now, of course, he didn’t have a private life at all. It had died with him and apparently not been included in the resurrection package. 

By the time Nathan left his office, Charles had already started running over all the concert details in his mind. He pulled out his laptop to make the hundredth, final check on all the logistical details — including adding that really stupid-sounding name to the backstage pass list — then closed it with a snap and left to oversee the equipment setup in person. Not just for the concert, but all the grappling hooks and coordination of flight patterns necessary for reconnecting Mordhaus with its earthly moorings. They would return from the air to the earth alright, he thought, remembering one of the snippets of prophecy that Ishnifus had seen fit to share with him.

Without a fucking hitch.

~

In retrospect, it would have been nice for Nathan to include in the advance warning that Trindle was a fan. Despite his prodigious fame and fortune, he tended to date girls closer to the “normal” side on the crazy scale than anyone else in the band, so Charles hadn't put the extreme rush on her background check that he might have otherwise. 

At least Mordhaus was back on the ground. That, at least, had gone to plan. He had hoped, now that current events were starting to click with prophesied ones, that would put an end to the visions. After all, he’d put things back on track, hadn’t he? Maybe that meant not having any more of those head-splitting premonitions. Charles was turning off his office lamps for the night and considering calling Ishnifus to ask when a headache suddenly slammed him back a step. Only his quick reflexes allowed him to catch the arm of his desk chair and tug it under himself before he finished collapsing.

The feeling reminded him of an old war movie he'd seen where one of the antagonists made the mistake of discharging his handgun inside a tank, and with a deafening bang the bullet had ricocheted around the metal space for a second before nailing him right between the eyes. Completely like that. His ears were even ringing. He could smell burning... An explosion. 

He groped for the bottom right drawer with one hand and hit the speaker and speed dial buttons on his phone. The sound of it ringing through made him wince, but he had time to get the prescription and a bottled water out. According to the St. Necrophagist pharmacy label it had been prescribed to a John Doe for cluster headache pain relief. Charles took one and gulped a mouthful of water. 

"Yes, sire?"

"Ready one of the smaller helicopters for immediate departure," Charles instructed through gritted teeth. He closed his eyes, trying to dredge up more details "Make sure it's fully stocked with rescue ladders... and clean towels."

"Of course. And your destination, sire?"

The pain was fading with every second, as long as he took deep breaths and didn't make any sudden movements. Which he would have to, if he wanted to keep that ASAP departure time. Charles sighed and opened his eyes. 

"Klokikon."

It was a short flight, and it seemed that the closer Charles drew to the band the more this particular headache receded. He peered at the convention center through binoculars and wondered if it was because of mere proximity or because it was becoming more likely that the explosion wouldn’t affect them. Possibly both.

A weird sensation kept creeping up on him, though, as if something were on his face. Funny, the makeup that hid the scar on his cheek had never bothered him before. 

In the distance, the roof access door flew open and Nathan dashed outside. Charles focused the binoculars on him automatically and noted that he looked upset. Trindle — god, that really was a  _ stupid _ name — followed shortly after. When she took off her top Charles almost put the binoculars down, but on one hand he had seen worse in the line of duty to the band and on the other she appeared to be wearing a bra fashioned out of explosives. 

“Fans,” he muttered to himself with a sigh. The word was ripped away by the wind, and he motioned to the pilot to move in for rescue. 

The rest of the band dashed into view shortly after. With what passed for admirably quick thinking, they tried to chainsmoke a smokescreen to make good an escape, though of course as the helicopter approached with ladders already deployed it was blown away just as quickly. It also did nothing to slow down the countdown clock strapped to Trindle’s chest, but Charles was inclined to be proud of them anyway. 

“Did you schee that?” Murderface screeched excitedly in his face as soon as he’d made it all the way up the ladder, huffing and puffing. “That bitcsh was crazy! I schtepped up,  _ I _ schaid make a schmokeschreen. I schaved Nathan’sch life! Me! I’m a hero!”

Skwisgaar followed a second later, complaining around his cigarette that “I hads the ideas for a diverskion forst.” Then Klokateers ushered them to their seats and helped them strap in with safety harnesses. 

Nathan was the last to make it into the belly of the chopper, and Charles was about to put a hand on his shoulder and pull him away from the edge when the bomb went off. 

“Holy shits, look!” Toki crowed from his seat. 

Over Nathan’s sudden shrieks of horror, Pickles added, “Is that her fucking  _ face?!” _

Ah, so that’s what that had been about. Charles switched gears and grabbed for a towel instead. He steadied the frontman before he could flail his way into a long fall onto a burning building and wiped as much of Trindle’s fleshy remains off his face as he could. It was an unpleasant bundle in his hands by the time he was done, so he just tossed it overboard and led Nathan to a seat himself. 

Dazed, Nathan let himself be manhandled into the safety harness. He silently accepted another towel to finish scrubbing at his face. Charles was beginning to worry, but then he threw the towel down and growled, “Well, I’m never dating a fucking fan again. Happy now?”

The rest of the band chimed in with variations in the key of yes, very, and Charles relaxed. He waited for Nathan to hand him the used towel. 

“Well?” Nathan snapped again, still glaring at him challengingly. It was similar to the accusatory looks he’d shot Charles during the double booking incident, without the eventual backpedaling not-apologizing apology. 

“That’s good to hear,” Charles replied after a brief, surprised hesitation. “Probably for the best. And, ah, I’ll handle the press conferences for this one. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Nathan grumbled. The intense green glare relented and he pushed the bloodied towel into his managers waiting hands. “‘Cause I’m going to be busy. I need to fucking shower.  _ Forever _ .”

~

The rest of the week was a whirlwind of damage control. Charles didn’t find anything particularly amusing about the fact that a concrete column plastered with fan art of Skwisgaar and Toki making out had killed almost as many Klokikon attendees as flaming rubble, but Pickles and Nathan were practically on the floor laughing about it when that particular bit of news broke. Then Murderface started complaining endlessly about how many of the cosplayers the column had flatted were dressed like him, and that he’d sue for discrimination and for somehow implying that he was gay. 

“How ams that mean  _ you’s _ is gay?” Skwisgaar asked moodily. “It is us who am looks what’s gay kissing dildos.”

“Ja,  _ we _ ams what’s look gay,” Toki chimed in. “We should gets to sues about that!”

Skwisgaar shot him an irritated look. “So’s? Why does that matters to you? You didn’t even wants to go to naked ladies bowling nights with us,  _ pft,  _ who cares.”

“I wanteds to go, but you guys lefts withouts me and didnt say nothin’s!”

“Hold on, can we juscht bring thisch back to  _ me _ for  _ two fucking scheconsch? _ ”

“Oh my gahd, Murderface, give it a rest already!”

“Yeah, just face it Murderface, as far as the ladies go you’re just not doable. ... Hey, that’s a good catchphrase.”

Charles left them to sort things out on their own, quietly excusing himself. Eventually they would end up drinking (more) and either forget the whole thing, or distil the conversation down into a list of strange, oddly specific requests for him to take care of. And there were Klokateers stationed within earshot should the squabbling turn into an actual fight. 

His current assistant trailed after him down the hall for a moment before Charles waved him forward. Still walking, he asked, “Is there anything new that needs to be addressed?”

“A few things, sire. A group claiming to be family of suspected Revengencers is attempting to sue for emotional damages. As for the Revengencers themselves, we have some reports of cannibalism that might be linked. And I have this report on the man with the metal face for you.” 

Charles accepted the black file folder and tucked it under one arm. “Good. Pass that first one off to the legal team, and tell them do get as many artist renderings of the suspects as possible. We can spin it into some sort of human interest story, with emphasis on their violent actions. For the second, have 18839 deploy a few elite teams to check out those rumors. I want them heavily armed, but prepared to capture if possible. And have her start training more, just in case.”

“Yes sire,” the assistant confirmed, still taking notes. 

“And that’s all? Nothing flagged as urgent?”

“No, sire.”

Charles nodded, satisfied. “Alright, step to it then. I’ll be back in the control room in approximately one hour. Texts only until then.”

With a slight bow, the assistant peeled off down another hallway.  _ Another good one _ , Charles mused. He wondered how long this one would last. 

A few more steps along his own way he thought,  _ Step to it? I’ve never said that before in my life.  _

Sighing internally, Charles headed for the only elevator in Mordhaus that ran all the way down to the sub-sub-basements where Jomfru was being kept. Perched in a hydraulic motion pod, Edgar could move around his room to different workstations as needed; although he was confined to a finite series of tracks, it still encouraged the illusion of freedom. Charles had found that, and keeping the man busy, was all the morale boost he needed to stay on task. 

“Anything new?” Charles asked briskly as he entered. 

“Possibly,” Edgar muttered, not looking up from his keyboard and screens. 

To Charles’ annoyance he could hear Dethklok music playing faintly through the other man’s headphones. He frowned. “What is it, Jomfru?”

The captive stopped typing and looked up, pausing the music as he did so. "While trying to decode these Falconback blueprints we've intercepted, I've been listening to Dethklok's ‘Dethwater' album, my personal favorite.”

Charles was about to ask what that had to do with anything, and who had given him music to listen to, but something held his tongue. He waited.

"And I discovered subsonic frequencies hidden in the recording,” Edgar continued. "They're not made by instruments, they're made by whales. There's a repeating message I keep hearing… I believe they are trying to communicate with the band.” Charles’ eyes narrowed. "There’s a way to translate this, I just need some time.”

“Yes,” Charles said absently, lost in thought. When Ishnifus had show him the prophecy wall, hadn’t there been a whale among the paintings? Yes… “It’s all beginning to happen.”

If Edgar had any questions, he kept them to himself. “If you’d like me to focus on this, there's a decryption program I can start running in the background on the Falconback files. It could take longer to decode that way, but it would allow me to split my focus.”

Part of Charles wanted to say no. Whatever the Half Man and his people were planning was the clearest threat… The untranslated schematics suggested some sort of missiles, which was one of the reasons he’d been so interested in getting Mordhaus back on the ground, rather than presenting an aerial target. But it could easily be something else, something he wasn’t anticipating. 

But a stronger part of him, the part that was now firmly rooted in a certainty that he suspected didn’t actually come from him, said this message was important. 

Dethwater had been the band’s most successful album so far, the one fans had  _ listened _ to more than any other. To the point where he’d been glad that ridiculous “for fish” disclaimer included on all the merchandising. Maybe part of that was because of where it had been recorded. 

The Church of the Black Klok believed that the world needed not just Dethklok... but also the messages in their songs. 

“Yes,” he said finally, “do that. Send me a notice as soon as you’re close to a translation. Or decoding the plans, whichever comes first."

~

The opening of the urban youth center was a disaster. Charles supposed he couldn’t really blame the Klokateers that Toki had ordered to set up the giant ‘t’ (for Toki, presumably) on stage, any more than he could blame the rest of the band for showing up looking, however inadvertently, as inappropriate as humanly possible. 

The Klokateers still got cleaning duty in the drains and sewers of Mordhaus clearing dead bodies and the like, though. 

As for the rest, the retrospective he’d requested weeks ago on the dead Revengencers would go part of the way towards settling things. Because presumably, if Dethklok was racist, the terrorist group that had made the news for targeting them would include more outraged minorities, right? But most of them were white, so there you go. It was a profoundly stupid argument, but all Charles had to do was get one of the news pundits to repeat it and the entire media, country, and world would pick it up and eventually be too distracted to remember the original issue. 

Once the necessary arrangements and bribes had been made, Charles left the control room and retreated to his office. Ever since his return he’d been conducting more and more business in that central command post, which was more efficient, but there was something to be said for getting work done in a quiet, non-bustling environment without all eyes on him. 

He had just reached his desk when his dethphone chimed. From the ringtone alone he knew it was one of the boys, so he pulled it out of his pocket before even sitting down, in case it was urgent. 

It was Toki, texting something about a special persons invites club. Another one came through as Charles watched, adding that the rest of the band minus Murderface had been in the club, but they were out and Charles was in. 

He was still pondering how to reply to that when, without warning, the floor dropped out from beneath him and everything went black. 

**_Earth from a distance. The endless black of space around it was cluttered with space junk. Old satellites. A few remaining pieces of the Dethklok PR sign that hadn’t been ground down over the years by stray passing asteroids._ **

**_Earth, with her fragile mantle of land and sea, containing a crushing, inexorable heat within._ **

**_But on the surface, most of what could be seen was a jewel-like blue that was just as crushing in its own right. Blue that in it’s great depth faded to a black not unlike that of space._ **

**_In those depths, the Sea Prophet sang. Not to him, because who would sing to him, but all the same she sang and he heard._ **

**_ONE DAY, she sang, and the words cut across time and space and into his skull, burring there like a shard of glass. ONE DAY YOU WILL ALL BE WITH US IN THE BLACK AND DEEP._ **

**_AND IT WILL BE SOON._ **

~

Slowly, slowly, Charles came to on the floor behind his desk. His head throbbed, and just opening his eyes brought on a stabbing pain, as though his brain had been replaced with handfuls of broken glass that caught the light and reflected and refracted it into sprays of burning sparks. After a long moment of blinking stupidly up at the stone ceiling he made an attempt to sit up but instantly stilled, his vision swimming. 

He took a deep breath, then tried again. This time he managed to roll onto his side and reach one of the desk drawers. Moving like a man underwater, he felt around until he found mismatched bottles of pills and water. He took two of the former, and hardly spilled any of the latter all over himself. 

It was probably for the best that he was alone. Charles told himself that a few times before it occurred to him that maybe it was for the best, but he still felt like shit. The wind was whistling through the gaps in his soul again and he was barely able to pick himself up off the floor. He thought he’d been getting used to being the Dead Man...

He had only just begun.  


	3. ~ chapter 2 ~ just him and the secret he was keeping ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles’ visions are getting worse. And suddenly full of whales, for some reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Set:** Season 4, ep 3 (Prankklok).  
>  **Disclaimer:** I own nothing.  
>  **Chapter song:** Genius Next Door by Regina Spektor. Because Nathan, the lyrical genius, has a secret that he doesn’t want to tell.

**_And the ocean was at once_ **

**_the destroyer and the savior._ **

  


Ever since that first knockout vision of the whale, the premonitions had been getting harder and harder to decipher. Charles knew that something was going to happen but he had no sense of what, where, or when... just a vague suspicion that it would be lots of different things in lots of different places, all happening at once. A conversion of events that sometimes threatened to blow out the back of his skull. The worst of them always seemed to come at night, which made sleep difficult and going to bed an exercise in expecting imminent pain.

He had survived pain before, even the ultimate pain of his soul being ripped from his body, but that was different. That pain had been buffered by adrenaline and, in most cases, a sense of purpose. Charles had committed himself long ago to devoting his life to Dethklok, and by the pestilent gods, he had delivered. This pain had nothing to soften the edges. The visions were presumably supposed to help him guide the band to their destiny, but he couldn’t even make sense of them anymore. It was as if the message he was supposed to receive required more bandwidth than he actually had available and all that was coming through was a jumble of blistering static... with whales.

On top of that, there was the album release coming up. Charles had to sort out not only the usual logistics for manufacture and shipment, but the official introduction of an entirely new entertainment format. Because Dethklok had insisted on being the first band in history to release an album exclusively on liquid tracks. That meant the design of radically new sound systems, and at least some of those models had to be on the more affordable side so that regular jackoff could still afford to buy the actual album, too. The marketing mostly took care of itself, which was a blessing, but the public had to be _educated_ on how to use the damn things. Plus, other bands were clamoring to be the second, third, or hell even the thousandth to follow in Dethklok’s footsteps. _They_ had to be educated too, though at least Charles had years of experience explaining things to musicians. Record labels were starting to contact him about re-releasing older music with the new technology, with Snakes N Barrels’ old label the bold leader of the pack.

At least the Seething Vortex album art had been finalized months ago, before the whole racism debacle. That was one less thing to have to figure out.

Charles didn’t look up from the patent licensing agreement draft from the legal team that he busy going through with a red pen when the door to his office opened. He half listened to the careful shuffling footsteps, and the occasional clink of leg braces — Jean-Pierre. The chef had an extremely distinctive gait, for obvious reasons.

That made his pen slow to a stop in bemusement, because Charles usually prepared his own food, and when he didn’t it was usually brought in by a Klokateer. Jean-Pierre was the band’s personal chef, not his.

“Bonjour, sire,” Jean-Pierre announced in a gargling version of cheerful. “I have prepared for you a breakfast tray.”

“So I see…" Charles watched blankly as said breakfast tray was set on his desk, a simple arrangement of one beautifully plated omelette, a cup of fruit, and a mug of coffee. He reached for the coffee first. It was black, probably extra dark roast, and steaming invitingly. “Did you make this?” he asked.

“No, sire, just the omelette,” Jean-Pierre replied humbly. “Tomato, guacamole, and turkey sausage, just as you like. Number 374 made the coffee... It is difficult for me to operate the coffee machine with these thumbs.” The horribly disfigured chef held them up as if to demonstrate. One of them looked more discolored than the other, as though at some point it had actually fallen off into something that had left a deep brown stain… It was probably best not to think about that, though. “The espresso machine has been customized so it is easier for me to use,” the chef continued, "but Lord Explosion said you prefer regular coffee."

“Ah… Nathan asked you to bring this?” Charles guessed with a puzzled frown. “Did he say why?”

Jean-Pierre shrugged. It was an unpleasant event to watch. “Non, he only said to bring you whatever you usually like to have for breakfast. And then he added that you had better not… ah, how do you say… ‘fall asleep on the job like an asshole.’"

“Oh.” Charles took a sip of the coffee and cleared his throat. “Well, thank you for the omelette. It looks, ah, very good.”

With a bow, Jean-Pierre turned and shuffled out. To his credit, he _had_ made Charles’ favorite breakfast. And it did look very good, as far as Charles was a judge of these things. The boys were better at the whole gourmand thing than he was. Bottom line, it would indeed keep him from keeling over for a while.

Which just left the exhausted lawyer and CFO wondering at what point Nathan had been paying enough attention to notice that he hadn’t been sleeping or eating quite as regularly anymore. The frontman was supposed to be finishing the final tracks on the album, and this was just another stunt in a long series of excuses and attempts to drag his heels. What Charles had yet to figure out though was why, especially considering the rest of the boys seemed eager to get things wrapped up so they could all go on vacation.

Last week, there had been a four fifths majority vote to physically remove the delete button from all the recording equipment that they knew how to find. Just in case.

Charles looked back down at the contract he’d been revising and couldn’t for the life of him remember where he’d left off. Between that and his thoughts wandering off on tangents, he decided that for now it was probably best to put work aside and eat his breakfast.

When he was done, he felt a little better.

He gathered up the papers in his desk into a file folder and tucked it under his arm, leaving his office. Walking briskly, he was able to reach the control room in just a few moments, where he handed the folder to his newest assistant and sat down in his chair. “Take that down to the legal department. Tell them the revisions on my desk by lunchtime.”

“Yes sire,” the assistant replied, and hurried off. The next one — lately Charles had taken to having three at any time, so they could cross-train themselves and any, ahem, sudden new colleague — quickly stepped forward to take his place.

Charles barely even paused. “Give me a report on Nathan’s recent behavior.”

The second assistant scurried over to the nearest open console and hit a few keys. Footage from different Dethklok-related news feeds were suddenly replaced with a composite report of the singer’s recent sleep, eating, drinking, and sexual habits. “Over the past several weeks, Lord Explosion has been sleeping poorly. His after hours request for alcohol and marijuana have nearly doubled — apparently he is using them to help get back to sleep, per Lord Pickles’ recommendation.”

_Of course it was,_ Charles thought. “I see. Any other changes?”

“He has also been inviting fewer groupies back to his rooms, sire. There have been a few complaints.”

“Why wasn’t I informed of this earlier?” Charles didn’t have to frown, he merely raised an eyebrow for emphasis.

The assistant gulped, but held up admirably. “Because the complaints were against Lord Murderface. When Lord Explosion showed no particular interest in the ladies in question, he took it upon himself to provide... entertainment. The paperwork went straight to legal, sire, per your memo about routine litigation. And they’re all backed up with patent requests right now, per your other memo that those take priority until after the album release.”

Charles sighed. “Fine, fine. I’ll go ask him if anything is wrong. Have the on call doctor ready to go if he does turn out to be sick. And Twinkletits, too, in case it’s about that... Trindle woman.”

“Yes, sire,” the assistant replied in a relieved tone. “Lord Explosion is expected to wake up around two in the afternoon if you want me to set a reminder for you.”

“Do it,” Charles ordered. The big screens flicked back to their usual displays. He swiveled in his chair. “745, do you have a report on the most recent concert footage?”

The gear turned in her seat to reply. “Sire, we’ve discovered a twenty percent increase in the rate of suspicious deaths that cannot be directly related to Dethklok’s actions. The song breakdown analysis indicates that the most significant spikes tend to occur during songs from the Dethwater album. A copy of all our data is in your email inbox.”

“And the cumulative comparisons for all shows in the past year?”

“Also attached to that email, sire.”

“Good.” Charles swiveled in his chair to address a different Klokateer about the next order of business, and so on and so forth. He could tell that the assistant currently taking notes at his elbow — the third and currently newest to the role — was wondering how he could keep firing off questions and requests for status reports on so many varied subjects off the top of his head. If asked, Charles would have simply answered, _Practice_.

~

Years ago, Charles had promised the boys that he would not install security cameras in their private rooms. He had kept true to his word. Instead, he had put together five teams, each with their assigned band member and the directive to observe. Evaluate. Distil their every move into scientifically predictable terms, so that any actions not directly observed through the Mordhaus security circuits could be inferred to a reasonable degree of certainty. If anyone had a way to forecast Nathan Explosion’s sleep patterns and what mood he was likely to be in upon waking, it was his Predictive Security detail.

Charles checked a special app on his dethphone as he walked down the hall and saw that today’s forecast for Nathan was a 1:58pm rise with glowering and intermittent hangover symptoms. Flicking briefly through the info cards on all the boys he saw that the frontman would probably be the only one of them awake for at least an hour. He checked the time before putting the phone back in his suit pocket; a quarter past two. That should be fine.

He knocked on Nathan’s door.

There was a long pause, then the door opened a crack and one bloodshot green eye blinked and squinted at the relative brightness of the hallway.

“Ugh, Offdensen,” Nathan grumbled. “ _What_? It’s... it’s too fucking early for meetings.”

“This isn’t about a meeting, Nathan,” Charles replied. “I, ah, just want to talk to you about something.”

The eye narrowed suspiciously before disappearing back into the gloom. Charles heard Nathan moving away from the door, and, since it was still open, took that for the non-verbal invitation it was. Ever since Murderface and Skwisgaar had organized that vampire movie marathon as part of the very weird Welcome Back from Hamburger Time party the guys had thrown in his honor, it had become extremely rare to hear any of them say so much as ‘come in,’ just in case.  Except for Toki, who was as welcoming as ever and still occasionally had nightmares. Charles himself had not been invited to the party, just in case that might be interpreted as caring.

The interior of Nathan’s room was still dark, and Nathan himself was still in just his underwear. With an air of indifference the big man settled himself on the edge of the bed and then glared expectantly. “So, uh, what is it? Is something wrong with the album?”

“No,” Charles replied, though he made a mental note about the knee-jerk assumption. “I just came to check on you. See if you’re alright. I’m told that you’ve, ah, been having difficulty sleeping lately. Feeling sick or anything?”

Nathan ducked his head so that his hair fell defensively across his face. “No.”

Not for the first time, Charles felt as though Nathan didn’t want him around. While before that had mostly been a footnote in his observations before, chalked up to the frontman being a moody person, but it was beginning to concern him. What if the sullen animosity would make it more difficult to sort out whatever was bothering the man, which in turn was impeding progress on the album?

Fidgeting restlessly in the silence, Nathan relented. “I’ve just been having crazy dreams and shit,” he mumbled grudgingly. "And I'm not going to tell you about them like some sort of... gay... dude. So don't even fucking ask."

“Oh.” Charles paused to compose his next words as non-confrontationally as he could. “Does it, ah, help to have fewer groupies around when you have those dreams? I could limit the number of them on the grounds...”

“No,” Nathan growled, still hiding behind his hair. “I mean, yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Sometimes when they get startled awake they throw up all over you, y’know?”

Charles didn’t. Emphatically didn’t. But he nodded anyway.

“And they're fuckin’ loud.” Nathan was clearly warming to the subject. He sat back a little, not quite so hunched and closed off anymore, with his face more or less visible in the gloom. “Do you have any idea how brutal it is to try and get off when there's all that squealing, and you’re so tired you kinda want to rip your own eyes out?”

Seeing that he really was going to keep going on this vein until diverted, Charles quickly interjected. “Ah, no. So is there anything else I could do that might help you sleep easier? More security, or anything?”

“You mean those fucking security guys who follow me around all the time?” The look Nathan gave him was intense and inscrutable. "No."

As the silence stretched, Charles gradually became aware of a kind of pressing at his temples, as if another premonition was coming. _No,_ he told himself firmly, setting his jaw against the feeling. It was a word that was probably getting tired from overuse in current out-loud conversation, but tough. He was _not_ going to collapse in front of anyone, particularly not any of the members of Dethklok. Particularly not while Nathan was giving him that unsettling look, although his reservations there were more… murky in origin.

He didn’t want Nathan to see him as weak. Maybe that didn’t mean as much to his body as it once had, but it still mattered a hell of a lot to his soul.

This time it was Charles who broke the silence. “Well, if there’s nothing else,” he said, pulling out his dethphone to check the time. “I suppose I could, ah, arrange for a prescription of something that might help you sleep better. I really wouldn’t advise asking Pickles for anything stronger than pot, as he isn’t exactly a pharmacy and might not remember all of the possible side effects. We can’t afford to have you, ah, incapacitated right now.” He glanced at Nathan, whose look had downgraded back to a more familiar level of irritation at being told what to do. “Not with the album needing wrapping up.”

“Fine, whatever,” Nathan replied with a put-upon sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture that Charles realized with a little tingle of surprise was probably learned from him. “Now can I please get dressed and get on with my day? I've got things to do, you know.”

Feeling like he had missed something important somewhere in the exchange, Charles acquiesced and excused himself. The premonition that had seemed so threatening a moment before had vanished into nothing, not even the barest whisper of sensation, and he wondered if he’d been wrong or actually successful in shoving it away.

And if it was the latter, was that necessarily a good thing?

~

Charles didn’t think for a minute that his little talk with Nathan had made much of a difference, but it was undeniable that the last several songs were completed not long after. On the retail level, liquid players were already being sold by the thousands. The world was so ready it was metaphorically bouncing on its tiptoes with excitement, and the positive tremors were being felt throughout the global economy.

Skwisgaar commented on it one day during the band meeting that was supposed to revolve around record credits. Predictably, the proceedings were derailed by Murderface’s usual complaints, and the normally disinterested Swede snapped, “What does it matters who gets whats credits anyway? These dildo-licking fans am so wets for it we could play only ones notes from the albums and they creams their pants. Boom, done. We all gets credits for that.”

The statement was greeted with stunned silence, then crude but enthusiastic agreement. Even Murderface, who agreed to shut up about credits as long as he got to hit the play button. Charles was more than happy to make the arrangements.

Once the Liquid Master had been flown back from Shanghai and secured in the lower reaches of Mordhaus, it was only a matter of reproducing and packaging. The Church had asked that Charles help make this happen, and he had delivered. Even the painful premonitions had died down to a murmur, returning once more to the more straightforward nudges and knowledge whenever the guys did something to get themselves in trouble and needed his help. So he oversaw the last of these pieces falling into place with a deep sense of satisfaction at a job well done. 

That was, until Nathan started complaining about the album art, of all things. The one component of all preparations that Charles hadn’t needed to worry about for months.

“Guys, do you think the red in this album cover is too pink? This looks like fucking soup, it looks like pink tomato soup.” He lowered the copy he was brandishing for emphasis to address Charles. "Can we send it back and ask them to make it more blood red?”

Charles managed to avoid raising his eyebrows in disbelief, but it was a near thing. “Nathan,” he explained patiently, "I'm sorry, but the albums have already shipped."

"Told you so,” Pickles muttered. So apparently this wasn’t the first time Nathan had brought it up, it was just the first time he’d done so in Charles’ hearing.

Just as Toki got another prank call from Murderface, Charles felt it coming. A big one. He knew then, instinctively, that the recent lull in his premonitions had been the calm before the storm.

_Not yet,_ he tried to bargain, willing it to wait, just wait, for him to get back to his office, and he stood up quickly.

“Well, you all seem very distracted,” Charles said, calling the kettle black. His own voice was starting to take on a weird ringing quality in his own ears and the room seemed brighter than it had a moment ago. "I guess we can talk about the upcoming release tour later, when you’re more prepared to focus.”

No one protested when he left the room. Abrupt ends to these meetings weren’t uncommon, after all, and it meant he wouldn’t make them do any immediate work. It was the kind of conclusion they all liked. Except maybe for Nathan, who was still glaring intently at the album cover as though it had personally offended him somehow.

Charles speed-walked to his office, encountering no one who had important enough business to try and stop him. That, too, was not unexpected. Most of the work had already been done, and next step plans wouldn’t become urgent for another month or so, once the members of Dethklok each returned from their standard post-album vacations. He had just made it to his office and locked the door when the vision hit him with such force that it spun him around. His back hit the door and he slid down, blacking out before he’d even hit the floor.

**_He was in the crushing deep. Before him, the Sea Prophet hung suspended in the deep blue-black, and this time her song was for him alone._ **

**_She sang to him of the danger of the Half Man, scolding him for letting himself be distracted. Behind her words he could hear whispers, disjointed glimpses into other events. He heard,_ ** _A booming economy is key to passing the Falconback legislation._

**_The song changed. Now he felt the tug of the current, the electrical charge in the air above the surface as lightning flashed in staccato patterns through the chop of the waves. He felt the pull as every copy of Seething Vortex drowned, the metal caskets of their shipping containers ripped apart upon impact with the ocean floor, the message of the songs leaking out and diluted by the salt of the sea._ **

**_The song changed again. He tasted tequila on his tongue. He heard-felt-knew what it was to be Nathan Explosion._ **

**_YOU KNOW WHAT YOU MUST DO, she sang commandingly. YOU MUST DESTROY THE MASTER._ **

**_Wind swirled around him. He wanted to act, needed to dispel the dark cloud strangling his thoughts, the dream that had been haunting him, Nathan, both of them for months._ **

**_YOU MUST DESTROY IT._ **

**_He heard,_** _We're just getting information that the only remaining copy is protected deep within Mordhaus._ ** _He felt the eyes of the storms on him, all trained on one central point, focused on one necessary act, one explosive, orgasmic burst of violence._** _It's a sign, Pickles. It's got to be destroyed._

**_Then everything spun, sucking him down, pulling him into action, and as the ax fell his-Nathan's-their hands tightened on the handle and put as much strength into the blow as possible._ **

**_THE WATER._ **

**_Rivulets ran down the console from the shattered casing of the liquid master. That was the answer. That was the thing that had been wrong, that had been in the back of his head all this time threatening to explode. He heard,_ ** _The new Dethklok album is the engine driving our world's economy._ **_They had made an album, but it was the wrong one, the wrong time, the wrong tool to defeat the Half Man._ **

**_GO INTO THE WATER._ **

~

It was dark in his office when Charles finally came back to himself. He was slumped completely onto the floor, and when he gingerly felt the back of his head where it had struck the door he could feel a golf ball sized knot had already formed. That made him sit up far too quickly, and his head swam painfully.

When he’d entered the room, it had been mid afternoon. Clear skies, sunny weather, open curtains letting in the natural light. Now it was dark and there was rain pounding on the windows. He tugged his dethphone out of his pocket to check the time, but what caught his attention first were all the missed call notices that popped up as soon as he activated the screen. Charles swore out loud not when he saw the time, because that was about what he remembered it had been, but the _date_.

He had been unconscious for almost twenty-four hours. Protocol was that if his office door was locked he was not to be disturbed, which was why he hadn't been discovered out cold on the floor. The hundreds of calls that had gone unanswered were borderline breaking that rule, but clearly this was an emergency situation.

Charles dragged himself over to his desk on legs that felt like they were sinking into quicksand with every other step. His hand scrabbled at the lower drawer pull and he popped two pain pills into his mouth, washing them down with a gulp of fine brandy, sinfully taken straight from the bottle. He rested his forehead on the cool surface of the desk and knew, _knew,_ that it was already happening. Everything he'd thought he'd been doing for a higher purpose had turned out to be wrong.

What had he missed? There must have been something in one of those premonitions that he hadn’t picked up on and let everything go down the wrong track. At some point the whale must have given up on Charles and started talking to Nathan instead, and that... _That_ was what the crazy dreams had been about. Whenever Charles had suffered one of those knock-down, head splitting visions that he couldn’t make any sense of, Nathan had been asleep. And Nathan hadn’t wanted to talk about them, probably because he was worried that he would literally sound like a crazy person and end up finishing the album from a padded room and straitjacket.

Now the frontman was going to have to take the brunt of the fallout — with the world, with the band, and especially with Pickles. Technically there was still time for Charles to go down to where the master was kept and deal with it himself, but in his current state he could barely stand upright.

He could barely stand the ring of his desk line as he sent a call out on speaker phone, but he gritted his teeth and bore it. And served himself a very tall pour of brandy in a proper glass.    
  
This time, when the call was answered on the other end of the line, he merely waited.  
  
“Hello Charles,” Ishnifus said softly. It was as if he know about the splitting headache already. Charles also thought he sounded somewhat pleased, perhaps at the lack of impatience.  
  
“Hi,” Charles replied shortly. “So, I kept them safe. That part was pretty straightforward, and that was always my job anyway.” He drank another mouthful of brandy, which probably wasn’t the best thing in the world to chase pain pills with, but technically he was already dead. Or something like that. At the moment he felt so drained and empty, so unable to muster any emotion, that it didn’t seem to matter very much. “But what I don’t understand,” he continued, “is why you didn’t just tell me that this album wasn’t right. Why, Ishnifus?”  
  
“It was foretold,” the High Priest replied simply. “This album needed to fail in order for Dethklok to learn how to craft the right message."  
  
“Yes, and for the economy to crash and thwart the Half Man’s plans until we’re ready, I know. That’s why the band couldn’t know. But what about me?”  
  
There was a pause this time. Then the reply came: “You needed to learn from your failure as well. As much as you are their protector, Charles, it was not for you to protect them from this.”  
  
Charles groaned and rubbed at his aching eyes with the heels of his hands. Outside, the storm howled. There would be a lot of cleanup and re-landscaping to do tomorrow. “Why did I have a feeling you were going to say that?”  
  
“Because you are beginning to understand.”  
  
“I’m beginning to—" Charles stopped abruptly. He didn’t say, _I feel like I’m not myself, like I’m not really here. I haven’t experienced an actual emotion in months, and when I did it was a liability. The basic idea you keep feeding me is that everything is preordained, but I can’t believe that. If I believe that then all I am is a victim of fate. Prophecies are only blueprints; we are the contractors._  
  
He didn’t say any of that, just abruptly ended the call and slumped listlessly on the desktop.

Tomorrow’s cleanup would include the entire damn economy, and that would be all on him. Film crews, reporters… they’d all be calling and trying to knock his door down for answers. It was exhausting to think about, so he finished his brandy, poured himself another, and made his shaky way to his private rooms.  
  
In the door to his bedroom, Charles paused. “We are the contractors,” he murmured aloud, loosening his tie. We. Did that mean the Church? The band? Or did it mean Nathan and himself, who seemed the only two receiving psychic messages directly from some sort of prophetic whale?  
  
That last one made him feel just the tiniest bit less alone. Less... dead.  
  
He put his brandy down and undressed slowly. Something was starting to make a dent in the pain still radiating from the knot on the back of his skull, either the pain pills or the booze or both, and he didn’t want to risk overbalancing in his woozy state and whacking his head again. Tie, suit jacket, trousers, dress shirt... By the time he was down to his undershirt and boxers the storm suddenly gave one final gust, like a sigh of relief, and then began to wane.  
  
As an afterthought, he fished around in the discarded pockets for his phone and group texted his assistants that he would be unavailable until late morning, regardless of the level of emergency. They could put out some of the smaller fires on their own until then.

If he was going to have to singlehandedly solve the world’s economic problems, he was going to do it on a good night’s sleep and a decent amount of time to recover from his headache.


	4. ~ chapter 3 ~ the taste of dried-up hopes ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While dealing with the loss of the album, the resulting Dethcession, and various other things, Charles receives some unwelcome news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Set:** Season 4, eps 4-5 (Motherklok, Bookklok).  
>  **Chapter song:** I own nothing.  
>  **Chapter song:** Drought by Vienna Teng, for both prophesy reasons and reasons that will make more sense by the end.

**_And the harvest did dry and wither,_ **

**_and the sun did cease to shine._ **

**_The hour of forbodement was upon us._ **

  
  
  


One thing Charles sometimes really missed from before he’d become the Dead Man was... well, orgasms. Being the lawyer manager CFO of something as huge as Dethklok had always made sexual encounters something of a liability, to the point where he hadn’t actually been with anyone for a very, very long time, but he’d never had a dry spell like  _ this _ .

In the haze after the storm, he slipped into a dream of such intense sensations it felt almost alien to him now. Sometimes he was alone, sometimes there were other hands helping him along.  Mostly he was alone and floating in nothingness, but sometimes Nathan was there, growling at him to  _ just do it already, come on. _ Those moments never lasted long but they were suffused with a white hot intensity that Charles never wanted to end.

When he woke up, though, there was no evidence of the dream. It had been entirely in his head and his sleeping body had taken no part in it — which was only gratifying in the sense of less laundry to do. 

If there were still gaps between his body and soul, one of them was definitely centered over his groin, and that left him feeling oddly exposed. As he woke up more fully, sensations like “muggy” and “nauseous” and “motherfucking headache” and “a handbreadth away from slightly concussed” added themselves to the list as well. 

God he felt horrible, and made a strongly worded mental not to never mix pain pills and alcohol again. How did Pickles do shit like this all the time? 

On the bright side, he worked for Dethklok. Accidents happened all the time. Maybe something would set him on fire or fall on him from a great height and put him out of his misery before breakfast. 

~

After about an hour and all the coffee he could keep down, Charles unlocked his office door. That, it seemed, was enough to unleash the floodgates. Not of the outside world — his assistants were doing an admirable job of keeping that at bay for now — but of something much closer to home. He’d just sat back down at his desk and started to read through the piles of reports when the door banged open and Skwisgaar stalked in. 

“Ams it trues?” demanded the world’s fastest guitarist. “All the hard works for nothings, Natans fucking smashkes it, poof, dat’s it?!”

Charles looked up, deadpan. “It’s true. Ah... why do you have bruises all over your face?”

The question was waved off with a derisive, “Airports securkrackles, pft, nots even my credit cards.” Which made no sense, and Charles was about to pursue the issue when Toki ran in, looking equally battered. 

“It’s trues? You fuckings kidding me, I  _ kills it _ on all my—”

Skwisgaar banged his fist down on the desk, making the half empty coffee mug jump. “Do you knows how many perflects solos am gones now from de damns servants what’s don’t know to not gets to Nathans tequila?! We was just talkings about dat yesterdays, why don’t you listens!”

“Hey, don’t interrupts! And that’s was just Pickle what’s say that, not yous, and Charlies wasn’ts even th—”

Then Murderface barreled in, looking even worse than the other two. “THESCHE FUCKING JACKASCHES SCHTOLE MY CREDIT CARD AND NOW I’M A NATIONAL SCHECURITY RISCHK!” He glared around the room through puffy, swollen eyelids. “What’sch everyone elsche yelling about? I’m the one with two black eyesch here,  _ I’m _ the injured party!”

“Wowee, those airports security guys really fucked up yous face,” Toki commented, pausing to allow himself to be taken aback by the spectacle. 

Skwisgaar threw his hands up in frustration, looking about ready to give up on the plebian morons that surrounded him. “You know whats Murderface, you shoulds see Pickle. Nathans smash hims nose in and ALSO SMASHED THE MASTERS ALBUM!”

The bassist’s mouth fell open in slack jawed bewilderment. 

Charles sighed, pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, and took the opportunity to intervene. “Everyone, please try to calm down. Yes, the liquid master is gone. Yes, every copy of the album was lost at sea.” Skwisgaar groaned and fell into one of the chairs in front of the desk, holding his head in both hands. “Yes, the current world economy can no longer support any of the vacations you had planned. Except for Skwisgaar and Toki, who, I’m told, didn’t actually have plans.”

“Yeah that’s rights,” Toki mumbled bleakly, sitting down and copying Skwisgaar’s dejected pose. 

“And yes,” Charles continued,  “Pickles is currently in the hospital getting his nose reset and Nathan has locked himself in his room for the foreseeable future. It’s definitely not an ideal situation and no one is particularly happy about it, but we’ve got things under control. I’m putting a plan in place—”

“Forget about that boring robot schit,” Murderface interrupted. “Doesch this mean we have to record _everything_ _over again_?”

Skwisgaar groaned something that might have been about redoing all the guitar parts again into his palms. 

“Because if we’re being honescht here, there were schome schuggestions I made in the pre-production meetingsh that we’re never quite, you know,  _ incorporated _ into the finisched product, if you know what I’m schaying.”

“No,” Charles replied patiently, “we’re not going back into production just yet. We’re all going to take a break, relax, recharge... And there will be some events in a few months that I, ah, think you guys are going to like.”

“Like whats?” Toki asked. 

“Well, that’s something I wasn’t planning on bringing up until the next band meeting—”

“Oh heeere we go,” Murderface snapped, scowling and half leaning, half sitting against the back of the nearest couch with his arms crossed. “I schee how it is.  _ Nathan and Picklesch  _ know about the album being deschtroyed first, and we’re the chumpsch who have to get the newsch schecond hand, asch uschual.  _ God forbid _ you tell  _ usch _ anything while they’re too lazhy and schtupid to be here!”

Skwisgaar looked up, still clearly devastated but not too much to roll his eyes at his bandmate. “You sounds like the big gays drama queens. Looks out, Ru Pauls, we gots another one.”

“—But it might be helpful if you guys had some time before that to brainstorm and come up with ideas,” Charles continued over the rabble. “We’re going to be organizing a series of free Dethfairs for the public, to help stimulate the economy. You, as well as Nathan and Pickles once I get a chance to talk to them, can come up with all the ideas for the rides and attractions.” He paused long enough to pick up his coffee mug and take a sip. “See? It’ll be, ah, fun.

“What kind of ridesch and attrackschunsch?” Murderface asked suspiciously, spraying spit everywhere. 

“You means likes the theme parks?” Toki asked, sitting up straighter and eyes widening as his imagination started to run with the idea. “Like what’s have the cotton candies and the fried doughs?”

Charles nodded. “Exactly. Roller coasters, drop rides, carnival games, the whole nine yards. The theme is metal, naturally, so anything that can be, ah, put up temporarily in a county fairgrounds or field or something for a few nights before being moved to the next location... goes.” 

That did the trick. Give them music-related work to do and they would squabble their way to mutiny, but give them the flimsy assignment of coming up with cool ideas that they wouldn’t actually have to figure out how to make work later on, and they could keep themselves entertained for hours, possibly days. Maybe even weeks. Even Skwisgaar seemed to perk up a little, and trailed after the other two when they left so Toki could show them a “reals cool idea” for a Ferris wheel using the toy cars in his room. 

Charles took the blissful silence that followed as an opportunity to get another painkiller out of his desk and wash it down with coffee. “I should have gotten my PhD in bullshitting,” he muttered to himself, grateful that the first thing that had popped into his head had turned out to be a pretty good idea. 

Which he was going to have to share with the label, the press, the Mordhaus engineering and loading teams... Preferably before Toki started posting about it on his FaceFriends account. 

He sighed and reached for his laptop and phone. 

~

Next, Charles paid a visit to Pickles in the in-Haus medical wing, where the drummer was working on going down a monster of a bender. His nose was still purple, swollen, and decidedly crooked. 

“Hello, Pickles. Ah... They haven’t reset your nose yet?”

“Weeeeell, they were  _ gunna _ do that,” Pickles slurred — except all the N’s came out more like D’s and with an accompanying drip of pink-ish snot. “An’ then I said  _ feck nooo _ , ‘cause that shit hurts like a b... a bitch.” He squinted at Charles. “Yew know what I mean, right chief? Sure ya do! Like a bitch... So, ya know how it goes... I got a lil drunk first.” Hiccuping, he took another swig from his nearly empty bottle. “They’ll do it inna sec.”

“That’s... great, Pickles. I’m glad you’re in such high spirits about that.” Charles couldn’t decide if it was the booze, denial, or some sort of acid flashback the drummer was on, but he didn’t feel like pushing his luck right now and risk prodding at what had happened with the liquid master. This visit wasn’t about ruffling feathers, it was about helping to smooth things over. 

So instead, he explained a slightly more refined version of the Dethfairs plan while carefully skirting the fact that  the economy was in open freefall and Dethklok’s approval ratings had never been lower in recorded history. It didn’t even matter that the public didn’t know the details — i.e. that Nathan was solely responsible for the final death note Seething Vortex’s complete annihilation — because the bottom line was that they couldn’t have the album anymore  _ and _ they were all getting laid off from their jobs. 

Rather than giving Pickles the same license to brainstorm as he had the others, Charles felt some grander gesture was in order here. Instead, he gave him the option of choosing the premier location of the traveling event. 

“You can pick anywhere,” Charles told him. “It could be in London, in St. James’ park...” At Pickles’ blank look he added, “Across the street from Buckingham Palace. I know how you, ah, enjoy flipping off palaces.”

A shadow moved across Pickles’ face and he muttered darkly, “That’s what we were gonna do on our friender bender.”

“... Oh.” Charles tried to think of something to say and came up with nothing. “Ah... sorry about that.”

Pickles grunted and polished off the rest of his liquid painkiller, upending the bottle into his mouth. When the final drops were gone he tossed it on the floor with a crunch. “Nah. Let’s do it in the shithole where I was born, okie? Let’s... let’s do it in Tomahawk. That’ll show him...” Then he leaned forward in his hospital bed and yelled out the open door, “Okey ya feckin’ sadists, I’m ready for ya! Do yer woooooorst!”

Charles took that as his cue to go, sending a message to one of his assistants to reach out to the mayor or city council or whatever of Tomahawk, Wisconsin, and start making the necessary arrangements. 

~

On Charles’ last day at the Church — before they’d sent him back out into the world on a serious of recon missions that largely consisted of getting shot at again — he’d found his way the library. One of the younger initiates proved useful enough for ferreting information out of. At first Charles had looked through every book that seemed promising, and then just every book, for more specifics about the prophecy. All he’d found were sketches of the prophecy wall and vague commentary. Fucking secondary texts, all of it. If that. Some of the sketches were even wildly inaccurate and noted as being drawn purely from memory or from witnesses’ descriptions. 

After seemingly endless hours of skimming cramped and tiny print, the only thing he’d learned was that there wasn’t exactly one single prophecy. Somehow it had all trickled in over the centuries from different prophets, different cultures, different parts of the world, all gradually accumulating on the wall as each new piece fell into place. After a while words blurred into one another, every yellowed page like the one before. There was nothing direct or to the point, nothing  _ useful.  _

Charles felt a similar frustration now whenever he tried to think about how to approach Nathan. All he had to go on was what little the man said or, more often than not, who he punched and how hard. Even Pickles, completely hammered and unable to breathe through his nose, was easier to read — and even then Charles hadn’t known what to say. What was he supposed to do, knock on the frontman’s door and say he knew about the whale? Then he would have to explain how he knew, and that... He couldn’t do that. 

So instead of heading from the medical wing straight to Nathan’s room, Charles went back to his office. And came to a dead stop just inside the door when he saw Nathan sitting in front of his desk, waiting for him. 

The big man’s body language practically screamed with tension as he whipped around to look at his manager. He looked like he was still suffering the brunt of a massive tequila headache. “I got tired of waiting for you to come and yell at me about shit,” he blurted. 

Charles blinked, then turned to close and lock the door behind himself so they wouldn’t be interrupted. “I, ah, wasn’t planning yelling.” He walked around to his desk chair, bemusedly watching Nathan out of the corner of his eye. 

“I destroyed the album,” Nathan burst out, glaring hotly at him as though he thought Charles was lying. “I smashed it. It wasn’t... wasn’t...”

The urge to finish that sentence pressed against Charles’ tongue.  _ It wasn’t the right message _ . He looked at the other man and saw someone who, albeit for different reasons, also couldn’t explain what was going on. Trying to fill in the blanks for him would just confuse things, and anyway he wasn’t even sure how much Nathan consciously knew. 

Instead of finishing his sentence, Nathan shook his head and scowled down at his clenched fists. “Pickles is really fucking pissed, but he didn’t get it. The album sucked.”

Charles felt tugs on his loyalty from multiple directions. He wanted to stand by Nathan’s decision because he knew, stand by Pickles’ betrayed outrage because he understood, stand by the righteously outraged label company because he understood that too, mourn the loss of income that the new album had represented because it was in his blood as a CFO... and nurse his own dashed hopes of his role in the prophecy soon coming to an end. All of those things were at odds with what the Church wanted him to do as the band’s neutral, unflappable guide to their destiny. 

The gaps in his soul felt the tugs and stretched, causing him the strangest kind of psychic pain he’d ever experienced. Charles closed his eyes to avoid making eye contact, purely because he was worried that Nathan would see it somehow and realize something was going on, and inhaled deeply. 

“I’m not going to yell at you,” he assured Nathan again in his usual flat voice. The tremors running through his mind and soul had no affect on his vocal cords. He opened his eyes and looked down at the paperwork on his desk, aware that the giant man sitting before him was fixing him with an intense glare. “What’s done is done, and how anyone feels about the matter won’t change that one way or another. Right now we’ve got to focus on bolstering the economy as much as possible, so that when we make the next album people can afford to buy it.”

A moment of silence passed, save for the sound of Nathan shifting a little in his chair. 

“So... you’re really not going to yell?” Nathan asked, still sounding like he didn’t believe it. “Because, uh... this is kind of a big deal, Mack. It’s an album. A Dethklok album. Not some stupid double booked concert, like the last time.”

The subtext, subtle as a brick through a plate glass window, was  _ the last time you yelled at me _ . Charles would have winced reflexively, if his reflexes had still been at all connected to his feelings. 

“I know. But...” He had to choose his words carefully here, to avoid reassuring Nathan  _ too _ much because yeah, what he’d done would have undeniable repercussions. If the frontman started to act truly righteous about what he’d done it would just make things worse, whereas if he still felt at least a little guilty about it he would just try to pretend nothing had happened and everything was normal, and  _ that _ was more likely to keep the band dynamic on an even keel. “... With all the confusion of the storm and everything, I’m sure it felt necessary at the time. Besides, you, ah, know you shouldn’t have tequila.”

There. That was reassuring while still remaining pretty neutral, right?

Charles couldn’t help looking up over the edges of his fake glasses to surreptitiously study Nathan’s expression. It was a picture in unresolved confusion, anger, and a sort of passion that Charles could feel the heat of even from across the desk, even in his purgatory state of being immune to emotions. He put it down to the passion of a creative perfectionist. 

“Yeah,” Nathan mumbled finally. “Fucking tequila.” He got to his feet. “So... were done here, right? We don’t have to talk about...  _ this _ anymore?”

Charles offered up a shrug. “I don’t think so. Not, ah, directly anyway. There’s going to be a lot of PR work to do in the coming months, but that’s about it.”

“Okay. Good.” Nathan gave him a final parting glare, then stomped to the door. 

“Turn the deadbolt to the left,” Charles called helpfully when the big man couldn’t get the locked door open on his first try. 

Then he was alone, left to realize — and wonder about — the fact that Nathan had called him “Mack.” The only other time that had happened was when he’d gotten really,  _ really _ sloppy with the band, still riding the electric high of winning a fight to the death with that wannabe manager, and hadn’t been able to stop playing with Nathan’s hair. 

~

For the next few months Charles was kept ridiculously busy. If it wasn’t the ludicrous hoops of Tomahawk zoning bylaws to jump through it was the UN to appease, and if it wasn’t the UN it was various world leaders of both countries and industries to talk down off of ledges. 

Not all of those ledges were metaphorical, either. He had to schedule weekly meetings with a series of experienced crisis counselors to brush up on his suicide prevention skills — because unlike Murderface, not everyone could be bribed back to safety with attention, rare Civil War memorabilia, and booze. 

Tensions were building between the band members as well. The distraction of planning the Dethfairs has worked to a point, and by the time there was an official band meeting about it Skwisgaar, Toki, and Murderface had come up with a lot of very metal, actually viable ideas but were cranky from spending so much brainstorming time together. Pickles, his nose still looking bruised, was mildly interested but still sullen, and insisted that when they went to Wisconsin he actually wanted to spend time with his  _ family _ . 

“Well, naht my dad, because I hate that asshole” he clarified between hits on his joint. “And my douchebag brother is still in Australia, good fuckin’ riddance... But my mahm is okey.”

“Your mother,” Murderface retorted flatly, “is a banschee schrew.”

“Don’t you say shit about my mother!”

Charles sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, which only reminded him of how Nathan had started mimicking the gesture lately. And that, ever since the day after the storm, that the frontman now stared intently at him whenever they were in the same room. The  _ entire time _ they were in the same room. It was as if he suddenly really wanted to figure out all the shit Charles wasn’t telling them but didn’t want (or knew better than) to ask, and had decided the best way to go about it was to bore holes through him with his eyes until the secrets just started leaking out. 

“I’ll made arrangements for your mother to be there during the fair set-up,” Charles told Pickles, preempting the next barrage of mother-related insults. Then he flipped to another page in his notepad where there was already a sketch of a roller coaster with two loops, steep hills, and sharp curves. This was one of Murderface’s ideas, and he had specified including a display of torture devices along the walls of the enclosed space leading up the first hill. “Now, about these, ah, props for the House of Ancient Torture Devices—”

“Not propsch,  _ real _ torture devicesch!”

“Yeah, reals cool and sharps and  _ everything _ !”

“Okay.” Charles made a note on his notepad. “How ancient were you thinking, exactly?”

The question gave everyone pause. Then Nathan cleared his throat, a warning rumble that precipitated an announcement. 

“Why does it have to be exactly?” Nathan shot Charles a particularly piercing glare as soon as the manager looked at him. “We can do whatever we want, right? We'll do  _ all _ the torture devices. Starting with, uh, Spanish Inquisition shit or whatever and then going back in time all the way to the original, most brutal torture devices ever...” He gave a toothy grin. “Really fucking sharp teeth.”

Murmurs of agreement rolled around the table, even a grudging one from Pickles. 

Charles met the big man’s gaze with calm willingness to accept the challenge. “The teeth of saber tooth tigers, or dinosaurs?” he countered. 

Nathan’s eyes narrowed. The rest of the guys were curiously quiet, perhaps trying to figure out what was happening here. Even Charles wasn’t sure, but it seemed like Nathan was more... thoughtful than annoyed. 

“Tigers,” he decided finally. “There weren’t any humans around when there were dinosaurs, so it wasn’t really about torture then. Just, you know... getting dinner.” 

Charles nodded, and the odd tension seemed to subside as quickly as it had built. He broke eye contact to make another note. “Maybe we could put the exit from that near the, ah... Kitty Kats Petting Zoo? Do I have that right, Toki?”

“Yeps!” the rhythm guitarist chirped. “I thoughts we could go gets some from that island place!”

Skwisgaar snorted. “You means from that islands whats where everyone dieds a horribles death? That ams a terribles idea.”

“Shuts up about my ideas, Skwisgaar!”

Charles was inclined to agree with the lead guitarist — most of the island’s few remaining inhabitants had indeed been killed by feral cats — but merely said, “I’m sure we can find some suitable cats who are properly socialized for being petted by lots of strangers.” Looking down at his notes, he added,  _ Feline-appropriate sedatives and calming sprays _ . 

The rest of the meeting went on more or less productively. Material sourcing and pre-construction could begin on the Ferrari Wheel, Scrotal Hanger, and Gibsonator, and via his dethphone Charles has already scheduled a conference calls with Frito-Lay about producing a 666 inch tall Dorito chip for each Dethfair location and a wholesale bakery in the Midwest about the dough for the Fried Dough Pentagrams. 

Things were moving along. 

After the boys had filed noisily out of the room to start their late afternoon drink-and-soak in the hot tub, Charles looked up from adding the finishing touches to his notes and was surprised to see that Nathan was still at the table. 

“Ah… is there something you’d like to discuss further, Nathan?”

"Uh. Nuh-yeah... um, kinda." The frontman glowered at him for a moment, making Charles want to ask him how he could have possibly been caught off guard by that question. “Do you, uh... really think this amusement park shit is going to fix everything?”

_ Nope _ , he thought, with more certainty than he really had any right to. Chances were there would be some kind of destructive accident during at least one of the Dethfairs that would end up making the whole thing more or less a wash. 

Out loud he said, “Well, ah, there’s no way to know for sure, but it’s a start. Sometimes in these situations it helps to at least  _ look _ busy... Plus we’ll be dumping a lot of money into the market to make these events happen, so hopefully some of it will, ah, trickle down to the out-of-work working class.”

Nathan’s scowl made a subtle shift to a frown of confusion. “How? I mean, if they’re not working, they’re not making money.”

Charles had no real answer for that, so he just shrugged and said, “You’re not actively doing any work right now, but technically you are still making money.”

“Humng,” Nathan grunted. “But that’s because I’m famous, right?”

This was an unprecedented show of interest in how things worked.  Charles wasn’t sure whether to put it down to suppressed guilt over destroying the liquid master or Nathan’s nine month stint of half-heartedly trying to fill his shoes. 

“Yes, that’s true.” He sighed and almost pinched the bridge of his nose, but stopped himself before his hand could move from its place near his pen. “Still, this is our best shot and making things up to the public. They’re starting to call this economic crash the ‘Dethcession.’”

“Yeah, I saw that on the news. Pretty brutal.”

“And not in a good way, either,” Charles agreed. “Anyway, now that we have the ride concepts locked down I’m going to start feeding preliminary reports to the Associated Press. It will at least garner some interest and hopefully get people talking about Dethklok in a more positive light.” He offered a tight, businesslike smile. “We’re giving them something to look forward to. After the fairs, we’ll figure out where to go from there. Now...” He started gathering up his things. “If you’d like to keep talking about it, you can walk with me to my next meeting with the attraction design teams.”

Nathan looked like he was actually considering it for a moment, but eventually he shook his head and rose from his chair, heading for the door. “Nah, I’m going to go catch up with the guys. Tell those jackoffs to make it metal, none of that bullshit wooden coaster crap.”

Charles nodded and stood as well. “Of course. Steel is faster, anyway. And you, ah, can’t have loops with a wooden roller coaster.”

Pausing in the doorway, Nathan glanced over his shoulder at him. It was another one of those looks that Charles couldn’t read. “How... do you always know random shit like that?”

He was about to reply when, completely without warning, a premonition hit him like a sledgehammer to the brain. A jumble of images and phantom smells, none of them particularly surprising: carnival rides going haywire, screaming, fire, smoke, blood, burnt flesh. He was familiar with most of it from his many years of working with Dethklok. 

There were no whales this time and he didn’t black out — and luckily he was still close enough to his chair that he could grab onto it for support behind his back — but by the time his vision cleared Nathan had already left. Rhetorical question, apparently. Charles hoped that the frontman hadn’t noticed anything, then felt something wet trickle into his mouth, coppery and salty and warm. His hand shot to his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe at the nosebleed. 

_ Shit _ . 

It wasn’t a throbbing knot on the back of his head, so in a way sort of a step up, but these things were getting worse if they were actually starting to burst blood vessels. Leaving the conference room at a fast pace, he wondered morbidly through the ache if the Dead Man title was in part because these premonitions were going to kill him. 

~

Two things happened before the inaugural Dethfair. 

First, Charles managed to keep it quiet from the band that the fair would include playing a free show. It wasn’t that hard; once they decided to boycott the news because “fuck the Dethcession,” it was merely a matter of only mentioning it a couple of times, well spaced out, when they were all drunk. He had his pick of good moments.  And sure, he felt... not guilty, exactly, but... uneasy about it, but he couldn’t afford to let them be scared away by the prospect of doing work. The  _ actual _ work would come later, when the label really started to lean on them about recording a new album. 

Second, he made the mistake of going to his annual checkup. He had missed the previous year on account of being legally dead, and it had been a break from last-minute checking over permits and safety waivers. 

“Well, you seem to be in pretty good physical shape, all things considered,” his doctor told him. “But I’m not going to lie to you, nosebleeds are not exactly common in conjunction with migraines, and you keep using up your prescription refills at a faster rate than expected. It’s probably nothing to worry about, but I’d like to get a CT scan of your brain.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Charles replied brusquely, buttoning his shirt and shrugging back into his suit jacket. “I have appointments to keep."

“Uh, it’s… kind of necessary?” The doctor looked acutely aware of the fact that he was talking back to Charles Foster Ofdensen, official overseer of Dethklok’s massive empire. Still, there was a hint of professional reprimand in his tone. “As a precautionary measure. If you don’t have time for the scan right now we could schedule it for another day.”

It was like being savaged by a goldfish, but Charles reluctantly agreed anyway. The possibility that his obligation to the Church conflicted with his physical health had been on his mind often recently, and while he didn’t exactly want confirmation of his suspicions, maybe medical science actually could do something to help. 

A few days later he had the scan done, but avoided talking to the doctor about whatever it had shown because he had more important things to deal with. It wasn’t the time for new distractions, he told himself, and when the sealed manila envelope with the test results landed on his desk the next business day he simply slid it into the bottom drawer of his desk and left to board the Dethbus to Tomahawk.

“Hey robot, long time no schee,” Murderface called as the manager stepped onboard. “Are you here to drink with usch?"

Charles took a quick scan of the bus’ main room. Toki and Murderface sat on one couch, with Skwisgaar across from them playing idly on his Explorer and his boots propped up on his personal footrest. Nathan was behind the fully stocked bar (minus tequila) and inexpertly mixing a drink for Pickles, who, since there were no stools, swayed by the bar looking tanked enough to not care what ended up in his glass. 

“Well I'm, ah, riding with you boys to the fairground site, but I don’t think—"

“GET OVER HERE AND HAVE A DRINK,” Nathan thundered. He jabbed a finger towards Charles. “You worry about shit too much, and it’s a long drive. Fucking relax like a normal person for a change.”

With a sigh, Charles picked his way to the bar through a maze of discarded bottles, extinguished joints, cigarette butts, and porn magazines, wondering how they’d already made such a mess when according to his sources they’d only been on board for twenty minutes. But that was Dethklok for you, he acknowledged wryly as he tried his best not to lean too much on the already slightly sticky bar. 

“You look like shit,” Nathan informed him gruffly. “Have you not been fucking sleeping again?”

“I’ve been sleeping,” Charles replied. Not a lot, but it wasn’t a lie. Seriously though, why did Nathan care so much about his sleeping habits?

“Bullshit. I’m makin’ you something with coffee in it.” He rummaged around in the bar cabinets for a mug and shoved it under the tap marked Duncan Hills. Hot, steaming, fresh coffee at the pull of a handle. 

Dethklok also held the patent on kegs for molten hot beverages. 

Charles eyed first the coffee and then the rows of bottles behind the frontman, accepting the fact that there would be drinking in his near future. “Alright, milk and  _ one _ shot of brandy, please. The good stuff.” 

Nathan grunted and grabbed the Emperador bottle down from a high shelf. He met Charles’ eyes definitely as he tipped the bottle over the mug and sloshed in significantly more than one shot. 

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Great. Thanks.”

Expression not changing, Nathan grabbed the bottle of Baileys he had been using for Pickles’ drink and poured that in too. He dropped the eye contact only to stir, drop a pink paper umbrella with cherry and pineapple garnishes in, and push it across the bar. 

“... Perfect.”

“‘S been a while since y’got sloppy with us, chief,” Pickles observed, slurring. He slung an arm around Charles’ shoulders and leaned heavily on him to stay upright. “But hey, cheer up! We’re goin’ to The Midwest! Home of... pasties and... heavy winter drinking and... pasty old ladies for Skwisgaar ta fuck...”

“Here heres,” Skwisgaar cheered in monotone from his couch slouch. 

“Isn’t it’s summers now?” Toki asked. 

“Who cares,” Nathan rumbled, and shot Charles a pointed glare. “Don’t be an asshole, drink your drink. It’s a Nathan Explosion special!”

Charles wrapped his hand around the mug handle, bumping the front man’s fingers slightly in the process. “Because you made it, right?” He brought it up to his mouth and sniffed carefully. It didn’t make his eyes water, so he chanced a sip. 

“Uh... yeah. And I’m Nathan Explosion. So there you go.”

The intensity of the stare being aimed his way would have unsettled Charles more if he hadn’t spent the last several months getting used to it. Although... being used to it was an odd realization in itself. He was wary of starting to feel as though any member of the band, even one of the arguably more responsible members, was looking out for his well-being in some way. Especially since that way would eventually lead to a hangover, and he really didn’t want to drink much on top of his high-powered medication. 

After a while, the guys sidetracked themselves into not paying very much attention to Charles anymore. He took the opportunity to dispose of the ridiculous fruit garnish while no one was looking, and then nursed that one drink the entire, long drive to Tomahawk. By the time they arrived at their destination he had even managed to slip off long enough to his Dethbus office to print a copy of the speech Nathan was supposed to give, and make a check-in call to the team of Klokateers responsible for escorting Pickles’ mother to the fairgrounds. 

From there, everything went more or less how he had expected it would:  Nathan was mildly annoyed to realize they were doing a free show but apathetic enough to let it go, the audience responded to the speech with less than lukewarm interest, and only half of what was on the printed page actually got read aloud before Nathan lost interest and petulantly batted the microphone off the podium. Charles listened with half an ear to the conversation Pickles had with his mother off-stage —  _ So kind of her to keep her voice down for her son’s benefit _ , he thought sardonically — and wasn’t particularly surprised when Pickles approached him shortly afterward asking what he would need to in order to become a realtor. The other so-called honest careers Molly had mentioned were carpentry and dentistry, but  Charles had heard at least three different versions of the story about the runaway circular saw during renovations and none of the band members wanted anything to do with dentistry after what had happened with Nathan’s dentist. 

Charles retreated back to his traveling office to secure a realtor’s license, leaving the boys helping with the fair construction under the capable supervision of his most experienced Klokateers. Unfortunately, once he was back in the quiet, private, comfortably air conditioned Dethbus, he couldn’t help his thoughts straying back to his perpetually aching head and the envelope in his desk drawer back at Mordhaus. 

What had happened when he saw the Half Man should have killed him. Technically, it had. Then the Church had brought him back to play a very specific role in whatever was coming... and presumably that role would no longer be necessary once the prophecy was fulfilled. 

So what if the life he had now was just borrowed time? 

Most days, he felt like a flat caricature of his old self, just going through the motions when all of his actual substance had already been removed, leaked out into the ether where his soul should have gone when the Half Man cursed him. There was no point in being selfish and trying to delay whatever needed to happen because he wouldn’t really get much out of it, not to mention it could backfire horribly and get Dethklok killed...

And that was the thing. He owed his life to the Church, but he owed  _ everything _ to that band. For now the two loyalties followed roughly the same track, but what if someday they didn’t? What if one of the buys got hurt, or even killed, as part of the destiny that Ishnifus kept going on about?

He thought back to taking the mug from Nathan earlier, the way their hands had touched briefly. The contact hadn’t felt much different than touching a table or chair except that it had been warm. Charles’ own hands tended to run cold — always had, when he was younger — so he had at least gotten that much out of the human contact. 

Elsewhere in the bus, a door banged open and he could hear the din of arguing, swearing, and laughter that always accompanied the band. Charles sighed, checked that his door was locked, then ran through a few of the exercises Ishnifus had given him to help calm the turmoil in his head. As his doubts quieted he felt better, but at the same time he knew it was only a temporary relief. Nothing had been resolved. Nothing  _ could _ be resolved, and eventually something was going to have to break. 

He unlocked his door and went to greet the boys.

They had already settled in more or less the same places they’d been in on the ride there, except for Pickles. The drummer looked tense, irritated... probably relatively sober, for him. He was also the only one of them who wasn’t munching on one of the prototype Fried Dough Pentagrams. 

“So, ah... How’s it going?” Charles asked. 

Skwisgaar swallowed and scoffed. “Uh, sweatings ands tired ands starting to burns in the summer suns, that’s how we ams, Mister Butlers.”

“Okay.” The manager fixed his gaze on nothing just above his head, because the pentagram Skwisgaar was waving around was leaving weird, blue-red smears across his vision for no apparent reason. He chose to ignore that fact in the hopes that maybe it would go away. “Well, you know those aren’t supposed to be for snacking, right?”

Murderface sighed gustily, whistling a little though his front teeth. Small flecks from the fried dough he’d just polished off flew out with the exhalation, making Charles glad he was still standing far away by his office door. “Schee, there you go again, trying to make everything about the  _ rules _ . We’re juscht trying to relaxch here!”

“Yeah,” Nathan grunted, “we’re taking a break in the AC. God, this place is almost as bad as Florida.”

“Realies?” Toki asked around his last mouthful, his eyes opening wide. “Wowee, which parts?”

“Uh... All of it.” Nathan fell silent in favor of cramming what remained of his edible pentagram in his mouth, whole, and pouring himself a drink to wash it down with. 

“That’sch pretty bad...”

Charles back cut in as the voice of practicality, trying to get the conversation back on track. “I’m not saying you can’t take breaks,” he said, “just as long as you get a few things done in between them.”

“But it’s so hots,” Toki complained. “I have a real thirsties from being out there.”

“Guys,” Charles told them firmly, “it's important that the world sees you being hands-on at this fair, okay?” He glanced at Nathan for a moment, who he could’ve sworn nodded back almost imperceptibly. Thrown off by that — had it actually happened, or was he still seeing things? — he grasped for the next thing he’d wanted to mention. “... And, Pickles, I have that, uh, real estate license for you.”

He waited until the inevitable conversational tangent that followed had their complete attention, and slipped outside around the time Pickles snapped, “But you know what? I’m starting to think that  _ we’re _ the assholes!” 

_ I’m probably the asshole _ , Charles mused as he radioed for the foreman Klokateers scattered around the site to check in with progress reports.  Everything had been designed for a relatively quick setup, but the key word there was relatively.  _ I could just tell them everything now.  _ Maybe that would help keep the band together, stop Pickles from lashing out at Nathan if he know why the liquid master really had been destroyed, keep them from leaving Toki out of things all the time when they need to stay together... 

There was no reason not to, except for how well he knew them. Even if they took it seriously, they weren’t yet the kind of people who would band together in this abstract of a crisis. If he got anywhere near the word “heroes” they would laugh him out of the room. 

That, he suddenly knew, was the real goal he was leading them towards. Not the album, although that was essential as well; he needed to help mold who they were into who they would need to be. And then...

Two masters were vying for his loyalty: the band and the Church. Charles supposed that when it came down to choosing between them, it would depend on whether the boys would truly be able to come into their own or if they were simply meant to be tools in the Metalocalypse. 

That thought never completely left his mind for the rest of the day, to the point where he even said something to Nathan about it.

“One cannot serve two masters, Nathan,” he intoned, stoically ignoring the bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck in the Midwestern summer heat. “One cannot serve two masters.”

The frontman gave him another one of those weird looks but didn’t comment except to say, “Yeah... Yeah, that’s a tricky one,” in tones of  _ what the fuck are you talking about _ . 

“Oh well, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Charles added awkwardly. He wondered if he had actually reached the point where he would need a day off just to catch up on sleep. 

“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” Nathan echoed. Then he frowned and gave Charles an unexpected push toward the bus. The smaller man almost stumbled, but it wasn’t from the gentle shove and he recovered smoothly. “Go sit in the AC for a while, you’re starting to talk crazy from all the heat. It’s pissing me off.”

With a shrug, Charles did as he was told. As he walked he adjusted his glasses — and used the gesture as a cover for quickly wiping his nose before anyone could see the trickle of blood. 

_ Okay, _ he thought, at the same time putting a great deal of thought and care into walking a straight line,  _ so it will be fine. Pickles will sell houses to himself, we can gift those to the survivors and victims’ families when this fair goes up in smoke, and that will settle a whole host of PR problems. That’s nice.  _

Once he got back to his office on the bus and locked the door, he fell face first onto the small couch and was out like a light. 

~

In the aftermath of the Dethfair, things happened as they usually did: one after another after another. One of his assistants had died in the conflagration, so a new one had to be selected and trained. The man with the metal mask had been spotted somewhere along the West Coast. Charles spent an entire day distracting Jomfru from his primary task with questions about the Revengencers — about their brainwashing techniques, if it would be possible to send counter-trained spies to infiltrate their ranks, any insight at all on the character of that masked bastard. The science team started running brainwashing and counter-brainwashing tests on volunteers, mostly Klokateers who had advanced gangrene or other terminal health problems from living in the lower levels of Mordhaus. Crystal Mountain Records began demanding that Dethklok get into the recording studio and start work on the new album. Toki published a book simply by typing one up on his laptop and emailing it to a publishing house, which picked it up instantly for the best seller written-by-a-celebrity material it was. 

Charles was sitting up in bed one night, dutifully slogging through the word salad that was Skwisgaar Is Ams Dick, when there was a booming knock on his door. 

On the door to his private rooms, the entrance to which was inside his office. Which he had locked. He checked the time and sighed when he saw it was past two in the morning. 

“Come in, Nathan.”

There was a brief pause, then the door swung open and Nathan stood there in a dark red bathrobe. “Hey, how’d you know it was me?”

“You have a very distinctive knock,” Charles replied dryly. “And I’m assuming you kicked my office door in to get here. What can I help you with?”

But the frontman seemed distracted by staring at him, and Charles realized this was probably only the third time Nathan had seen him in anything besides a suit or a bathrobe. A stubborn part of him refused to feel embarrassed, however; after all, he was decent enough for two in the morning company in an undershirt, his lower half covered by blankets and the open book in his lap. 

“Nathan?” he prompted. 

“What?” Nathan blinked. “Oh, yeah. What the fuck was that stupid memo you sent out about recording tomorrow?”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “You mean the memo I sent out last week?”

“Yes!”

“Nathan, you knew this would happen eventually. Dethklok hasn’t released a new album in a while, so the label is demanding we get to work on one.”

“But I don’t have any  _ ideas _ ,” the big man growled petulantly. He looked about a minute away from starting to break Charles’ good lamps. 

This was nostalgically familiar. Charles could remember the days when the band was working on the first couple of albums that would later propel them straight into the celebrity spotlight in the blink of an eye, when  Nathan had crashed into his apartment at ungodly hours to grumble about not having enough ideas. Once, before construction on the band’s new Haus had been completed enough to make it livable, Nathan had shown up at Charles’ apartment and ended up prowling around the entire place. Every room, including the bedroom. He’d even stuck his head in the closets and tried out the bed, later muttering some excuse about making sure Charles could get a good enough night’s sleep to get all their business shit done properly. He’d spent that night wide awake in that bed, transfixed by the lingering scent of the man on his pillow and sheets.

It was really depressing that now he didn’t feel any of that in Nathan’s presence anymore. That entire part of him had withered and died. 

Charles forced his thoughts back to the present, closing Toki’s book and putting it aside. This visit, he figured, was probably at its core another symptom of feeling guilty over destroying the last album. And now having to start over and write new songs and lyrics from scratch. What the man really wanted was to ask for direction, for help, but he was far too metal to  _ actually _ ask. 

“What if you, ah... explored the brutality of public opinions?”

Nathan just stared at him. 

“I mean,” he continued, “you’ve experienced plenty of that in the past year. That racism debacle, and having to run away from that angry crowd before the urban youth center burned down? The Dethcession, followed by the Midwest unexpectedly becoming one of the most economically stable regions in America thanks to Pickles’ actions as a realtor? What’s happening with Skwisgaar and Toki right now?”

“Hmn,” Nathan grunted. He still seemed dissatisfied, but at least Charles’ internal lamp-smashing prediction meter was starting to go down. Which was good, because his private rooms were where he kept the good Tiffany lamps these days. “So... people should make up their fucking minds and then stick to it, is what you’re saying.”

“Well, I suppose...”

“Even if they get a lot of shit for their decision,” the front man continued. 

A whole new kind of alarm bell, one that had nothing to do with lamps, was starting to go off in Charles’ head. He had been thinking more along the lines of songs that might subliminally nudge the fans towards siding with Dethklok if it came down to some sort of cataclysmic, all out war against the Half Man, but Nathan seemed to be taking it as... life advice. 

Which was he was sure Ishnifus would disapprove of. If they were going to change as people, they were supposed to do it on their own. 

“And if anyone who gives them shit about it, that doesn’t fucking matter.” Nathan bared his teeth in an almost grin. “Cool.”

_ There’s a name for that, _ Charles thought,  _ and it’s called being stubborn as hell. _ He took off his glasses — might as well, since it was he end of the day and he was in bed, ought to go to sleep soon really, and there wasn’t much reason to continue to keep up appearances right now — and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m glad you appreciate the concept,” he replied, allowing his voice to sound tired for the first time in this weird encounter. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Nathan shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. Gonna go back to sleep now.” He started to leave, then turned in the doorway and peered through his hair at his manager. “Hey, can I try out my new defibrillator on you sometime? I’m running out of stuff to do with it, since it doesn’t bring dead animals back to life.”

“No thank you. I’m, ah, exactly as fibrulated as I’d prefer to be right now.”

The piercing green stare had something slightly different in it now. It was that slippery, unreadable quality that came and went, often when the other man was aware that he had Charles’ full attention. At a guess, it was... some sort of question, maybe. But about what? Was Nathan having vision-dreams of the whale again?

“Okay,” Nathan rumbled. “Well, let me know if you change your mind. And, uh, I don’t think I broke your office door too bad. … Bye.”

Then he was gone, just as abruptly as he’d showed up. Charles got out of bed to lock the entrance to his inner sanctum, since apparently that was necessary, and sent a work order text to Maintenance. 

Suddenly, he was painfully conscious of the envelope in the bottom drawer of his desk. He still hadn’t opened it. There had been to much to do since Tomahawk and, if he was being honest with himself, he’d been quietly glad for the excuse to put it off. 

Charles sent a second text that flagged the work order as a priority. By this time Nathan had long gone; the office outside was quiet. He put on his slippers and stepped out into the darkened room, making his way swiftly to the desk. When he opened the bottom drawer the manilla envelope was still there. After a slight hesitation, he also pocketed the prescription bottles, some still containing pills and some empty. It was well past time to put all this somewhere more secure.

Back in his bedroom, Charles put the pill bottles away, save the most current prescription which he left in his nightstand drawer. The envelope he slit open with a letter opener and sat on the edge of the bed to scan through the papers. Scans, charts... He skipped to the summary at the end, to the words “ _ evidence of neurological deterioration” _ and the suggested treatments going forward, but ultimately the prognosis wasn’t good. His lips compressed into a hard line. 

It seemed the Church had brought him back with an expiration date after all. 


	5. ~ chapter 4 ~ so darkness i became ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when it seems like Charles was adjusting again, Nathan has a bone to pick with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Set:** Season 4, eps 6 (Writersklok).  
>  **Disclaimer:** I own nothing.  
>  **Chapter song:** Cosmic Love by Florence + The Machine.

**_And our home was pillaged_ **

**_to bring forth the dark soul._ **

  
  


Days were starting to blur together. Since reading his diagnosis, Charles hadn’t made getting a good night’s sleep much of a priority anymore — it was just an occasional surprise bonus. He figured that fate, or whatever the hell it was pulling the strings, wouldn’t let him die again until his role as the Dead Man had come to an end, so what the hell.   
  
It wasn’t just poor sleeping habits, though. A sense of apathy had closed over him that was cutting out all the... the noise. Back when he’d been studying corporate law and economics, long before Dethklok, and his head had been buzzing with facts about stock market portfolios, he’d read something about the noise. Something about how you couldn’t adjust a portfolio based on the whims of the market; you had to decide on a strategy and stay true to it without being distracted by the noise surrounding any particular investment.   
  
One night, Charles flipped his notepad to a blank page and wrote _My Investments_ at the top of it. Beneath that he drew a bullet point and wrote, _Dethklok_ .   
  
After a moment of hesitation, he skipped down to the next line and wrote, _Nathan_ . Even though that was, in part, redundant.   
  
Not that he would ever be in a position to admit it to anyone — nor would he want to for all the shitstorm it would undoubtedly stir up — but his attraction to the frontman had done a lot to bolster his patience over the years. Even in the beginning, when Magnus had still been around and things were just short of taking off, it had been the white-hot intensity Nathan’s conviction and vision for the band that had convinced Charles they were worth his time. The ghost of that attraction was still there in his head, though these days it could only manifest in his dreams.   
  
And... what else? Charles tapped his pen idly against his lips for a moment, staring up at the wood beamed ceiling in thought, then wrote, _Obligation to CotBK_ .   
  
Tap tap tap.   
  
He added, _My life_ , because he didn’t want to die again. Not really. It hadn’t exactly been an enjoyable experience the first time around, and although he was prepared to accept the idea that a natural death wouldn’t be quite as painful and terrifying that didn’t mean he was looking forward to it.   
  
Four things, and they were more or less in priority order. Charles sighed, pushed his glasses up to rub his eyes, and wrote down a fifth: _Passing the time until it’s all over_ .   
  
He froze involuntarily on the last letter. The R trailed into a random squiggle as a full body shudder of pain ran through him and a single drop of blood landed on the page below his short list. Charles just sighed again, pulled out his handkerchief, and opened his laptop. He needed to do some research on exactly which Middle Eastern country Sultan Sotajumala was tyrant of, because that would determine which local resistance organizations he would need to contact.   
  
~   
  
Some days, Charles wished he’d chosen a normal life instead of the music industry. He could have been a regular corporate lawyer for a regular multinational company. He could have never found out that lake trolls were real, that he was a pawn in some kind of apocalyptic chess game of fate, or that his mind and body could feel like strangers separated by a thick layer of gauze. He probably wouldn’t be dying.   
  
Other days, when his thoughts were a little more grounded in the realities of the day to day, he was grateful for the band calling him every few hours with weird or stupid problems for him to solve. It allowed him to pause meetings with the label and step out for a moment somewhere private to take the call, an often excellent opportunity to take something for the everpresent ache in his head as well.   
  
The new routine.   
  
“Sorry about that,” he told Roy Cornickelson as he stepped back into the label’s marble-plated conference room, tucking his dethphone into his pocket. It was one of the smaller rooms meant for the more private meetings, which as the representative of the biggest band on Earth he definitely merited. “There was a problem with, ah, some goldfish.”   
  
“That’s al— A goldfish?”   
  
“Several of them,” Charles corrected as he resumed his seat. “Toki has a fishtank. Apparently some of the others, ah, swallowed a few on a dare... and put one in Pickles’ favorite bong.”   
  
Charles had long ago realized that being vague on the details of these interruptions wouldn’t cut it with the head of the label. Being up front about such things put him in a much better humor for these private meetings, which in this case was a falsely casual way of negotiating for more time and money before the new album was ready. Roy was a nice enough guy as far as these things went, but he was still a businessman.   
  
Roy barked out a laugh. “I don’t mind telling you, Charles, if my kid had ever been as creative as your five boys, I would’ve paid more attention while raising him.”   
  
Charles wasn’t inclined to appreciate the comparison, but forced a small smile. It wasn’t as though he was their parent or babysitter. He was their employee. And besides, Roy’s idiot son had earned both the times Nathan had punched him in the face. “That’s kind of you to say, Roy.”   
  
“Kind,” the older man mused. His fingers drummed on the stark white tabletop, then he stood and walked to a marble drinks cabinet. “I don’t know if I’d call it that. You’ve heard the curse, ‘May you lead an interesting life?’”   
  
“Yes, I have.”   
  
“Well, your life is certainly interesting.” Roy returned to the table with two glasses of brandy, sliding one across in Charles’ direction. “But you seem to have developed a real soft spot for them over the years.”   
  
Charles met his look with a perfectly neutral expression. He knew what was happening here and, despite the slightly patronizing tone, he didn’t particularly mind letting Roy think the other man had the upper hand.   
  
“Charles, you know and I know — hell, the whole world knows — that you were born to make numbers sit down, shut up, and do whatever the hell you want them to,” Roy told him. This, at least, was less patronizing and more just the blunt truth. “Same goes for people. You've been vicious for as long as I've known you, in your own way. When you ‘died’... Well, it was a real blow, but I wasn't as surprised as everyone else seemed to be. Anyone who’s really making things happen is always a marked man.” Roy lifted his glass as if in a toast, then took a slow sip of his brandy. “I’ve always admired the way you get things done.”   
  
There was a slight emphasis on the last three words. He was really saying, _Are you going to be able to make Dethklok record and finish some actual demos any time soon?_   
  
“Are you suggesting that something has changed?” Charles asked, toying idly with his own glass.   
  
Also meaning, _If I said no, it’s not like you could do much about it._   
  
“No, no, nothing like that.” Roy lifted his briefcase onto the table and opened it with a click. “But perhaps a change might not be a bad idea.” He slid a folder across the desk.   
  
Charles raised an eyebrow, taking the folder and flipping it open to page through the contents. After a moment, his eyes flicked back up.   
  
“You want us to change producers?”   
  
Roy shrugged. “Think of it as more of a strong suggestion.”   
  
Which meant, _Yes, fire Dick Knubbler immediately._   
  
“It’ll be a hard sell,” Charles commented, returning to scanning through Abigail Remeltindtdrinc‘s resume. “The boys are fond of Knubbler.”   
  
Inwardly, he was pleased. The binder of potential new producers he’d had compiled weeks ago not only included Remeltindtdrinc, hers was actually one of the few he’d flagged as ideal. Because Roy was right, the band needed to be shaken out of the complacency they’d fallen into. Especially Nathan, who kept grumbling complaints about writer’s block whenever anyone asked him how the songwriting was going. Threatening to feed them nothing but fruits and vegetables wouldn’t do the trick; denying requests for ten thousand dollars to spend on socks and other trifles wouldn’t either. Firing someone close to but not actually in the band would definitely get the ball rolling, and this new producer certainly had the backbone to keep pushing.   
  
And anyway, Knubbler had been pretty loose with the drugs and sluts lately. The recording studio was starting to smell like a brothel and it was an odor that would inevitably creep throughout Mordhaus despite the cleaning crews’ best efforts if left unchecked. It wasn’t that Charles disapproved, exactly, but he definitely didn’t appreciate having to smell it in his workplace and home.   
  
“I’m sure you can find a way to explain it to them,” Roy was saying. “Hell, you’re Charles Offdensen! You’ve even told Death itself to back off.”   
  
“Yes,” Charles replied absently, “and once it’s done things will definitely begin to progress more quickly.”   
  
He was only half paying attention through the rest of the meeting, though that wasn’t very long since the bulk of what Roy had wanted to discuss was already settled. It was slightly amusing to see the older man’s air of smugness, thinking he’d won a battle against Dethklok’s CEO, when in fact Charles could hardly have been more satisfied with the outcome. Now the label would give them more money and Roy would be more likely to cut him some slack on the next actual point of contention.   
  
As soon as the meeting was over and he was back in the limo, he called his assistant. “Contact Remeltindtdrinc and offer her the job. If she accepts, schedule a face-to-face in my office for tomorrow afternoon.”  Pause. “Yes, absolutely. Give the go-head on that too. Make it absolutely clear that they are not to act until the band begins to play...”   
  
~   
  
Before the meeting with Remeltindtdrinc, Charles received an alert notification. He checked his email and found an update from Jomfru.   
  
“ _The whale messages have all been thoroughly decoded_ ,” the email read. “ _They’re all variations on ‘Go into the water.’ Not the song lyrics, you understand, though there are some similarities. Essentially they are saying that Dethklok must go into the water if they wish to survive. They’re not terribly specific about the actual threat, however there is something about 'The outstretched wings will dive,’ which could be an oblique reference to Falconback._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Following that line of thought, I’ve done some research into the traditional symbolism of falcons in the hopes that it might shed some light on why the name was chosen. Throughout many cultures the falcon has been associated with victory, freedom, an Egyptian Pharaoh’s ascension to the throne, command of the air, and speed of flight. The bird's latin name means foreigner or stranger because it is a migratory bird rather than sedentary. Falcons are all about focus – strong, one-pointed focus – and carry messages of transition or change._ _  
_ _  
_ _“As for the intercepted data, I have not yet been able to decrypt the coordinates for the five missile launch sites, the power control station, nor the satellite control array. The orbiting positions are as follows, and although there is no explicit mention of what they’re meant to converge upon I don’t believe destruction is the primary intention…_ ”   
  
He skimmed the rest. According to Edgar there was nothing at the point of convergence, not in orbit or the upper atmosphere, and it was somewhere over the North Atlantic, not corresponding to any known islands. But aside from the altitude, Charles recognized that spot alright. Ishnifus had made him memorize the longitude and latitude for visits, and for when the time would finally come to bring the band to the Church of the Black Klok.   
  
The rest was interesting, if mildly, but he put it out of his mind for the moment as a soft knock — correctly identified as his current Assistant #2 — announced Abigail Remeltindtdrinc’s arrival. The assistant ushered the producer in, her sensible, sturdy heels clicking against the stone floor.   
  
“Good afternoon,” Charles said as she took a seat in front of his desk. He made no move to stand, on the grounds that he was too important to do that for anyone and had been for years. “Do you prefer to be called by last name, or first?”   
  
Her mouth twitched slightly. It seemed he had scored some points with that one. “First. I’ve heard and read enough manglings of my last name to last a few lifetimes already.”   
  
“Very well.” He closed his laptop with a soft snap and moved the folder with her newly printed personnel file on top of it, flicking through a few of the top pages. “Glad to have you on board, Abigail. I feel it’s my duty to tell you that the boys will, ah, not be pleased when they find out you’re they’re new producer.”   
  
Abigail shrugged. “I didn’t expect them to be. So,” she added, “just so I know, when do you plan on telling them?”   
  
The fact that she’d picked up on that so quickly was a very promising sign.   
  
“In about an hour or so, depending on how long this meeting goes,” Charles said. “And I should also tell you, since it’s inevitable that any one of them might try it at some point, that fraternizing with any member of the band is a firing offense. It’s in your contract.”   
  
Her body language didn’t change, as though she had known to expect this. Instead she casually, almost idly, straightened the cuffs of her shirt inside her jacket sleeves. “Of course. I’m a professional.”   
  
“Good. And, ah, should deterrents become necessary, all I ask is that you not hit or mace them in the face, nor injure the guitarists’ hands in any way.”   
  
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Abigail replied dryly.   
  
That important point now covered, Charles flipped through her file until he came to the pages detailing some of her most recent work. “I take it that since you accepted the job, you’re also aware that the band is going through... a bit of a dry spell, let’s say. Creativity wise.”   
  
“I think you’d have to go pretty far to find someone who _didn’t_ know that.”   
  
“Good.” Charles turned the file around so she could read it and tapped a particular line. “Here’s my one concern... In the past four years, every album you’ve had a hand in producing has outperformed anything that has been put forward by the same bands by at least fifty percent. However, most of those bands subsequently dissolve under the pressure to meet that level of success again.”   
  
“You mean they can’t live up to my standards for very long without breaking up,” Abigail cut in bluntly. “I know my reputation.”   
  
Charles inclined his head in agreement. “So, ah, you see where I’m going with this. What I need from you is to reach those same standards without Dethklok feeling that they’re necessarily _your_ standards. This album needs to come entirely from the band.”   
  
Abigail gave a small smile. “You want me to indirectly provide them with inspiration,” she summarized.   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
Charles sat back in his chair. This was going to work. Abigail seemed almost as practical and focused as he was, and while the boys didn’t necessarily appreciate that in him it certainly got the job done. He also sensed that she had the right attitude for letting their special brand of casually callous insults roll off like water from a duck, which was another thing that Knubbler tended to lack. She would keep them on task until the album was done.   
  
“Any ideas for making that happen?” he prompted.   
  
Just because he already knew her answer did not make it a trick question.   
  
~   
  
It all worked out perfectly. Abigail had picked the country he had expected, and Charles had assured her that arranging subtle but effective security precautions for the “vacation” would be no trouble. He hadn’t mentioned that they were mostly in place already and she hadn’t asked. From there it was just a matter of making sure a jet was standing by for immediate evacuation once things started to go down. 18839 had hand-picked and trained an elite team especially for the occasion. The band had been gone less than a week, and was hopefully traumatized just enough to turn it into brutal new material.   
  
Meanwhile, he had earned a few favors from several world leaders for the assist in dethroning Sotajumala. It wasn’t public knowledge, but, well… sometimes it did pay to advertise a little. Now some other country could roll in and set up their own regime, which would probably last for about three, maybe five years before needing another quiet tidy-up, depending on how they ran things.   
  
But mostly it was the Falconback Project that was on his mind. Whatever the Half Man was planning represented a significant threat, even if he still wasn't sure of the nature of it yet, and it needed to be addressed. The next step was to track down where the missile launch sites were being installed, but Charles knew that the only way Selacia wouldn't see a spy coming was if he went himself — and he couldn't afford to leave Mordhaus long enough to do it personally.   
  
Actually, the next step was to figure out why all the employees of a Dethklok Inc. coal mining operation had been taken out with military precision. It was impossible to tell what the attackers had wanted with the site because it was impossible to tell if anything was missing, seeing as how the only people who with detailed knowledge what might have been there to take in the first place were now dead.   
  
It was all very frustrating.   
  
When he received a flagged text that Dethklok was all accounted for and safely on the Dethjet, he was in the control room. Several hours later, the pilot dropped by to report that Dethklok was back on Mordhaus grounds and had been deemed medically sound by a doctor during the trip back.   
  
Another twenty minutes after that, one of his assistants sidled up and cleared his throat nervously. “Um, sire?”   
  
Charles already knew it wasn’t good news. He didn’t need the premonitions to tell him that; his other two assistants had clearly ganged up and send the most junior of them to pass the information on.   
  
“Yes?”   
  
“Uh, Master Explosion is in your office. He, um… really wants to talk to you."   
  
Charles turned to eye the young man, whose assistant-regulation dress shirt was starting to stick with sweat beneath his suit jacket. “Is the door still on its hinges?” he asked, since he distinctly remembered locking it before leaving.   
  
“Um...” The assistant glanced back at the other two off in the distance for help, which was not forthcoming. “More or less. But the doorknob is definitely broken.”   
  
Maybe he was going to have to stop locking the door, since Nathan seemed so intent on making a habit of ignoring the implied request for privacy. Charles sighed and stood. It was probably something about some new song idea — those sometimes came with elaborate staging requests, and even though a tour for this album was still quite far off it never hurt to start figuring out the details now. He’d trained the man to just tell him about such things rather than writing them down, since time and distance would eventually give Charles more leeway on taking creative license in the name of practicality if necessary. (Or in the name of things that were actually physically possible.)   
  
“Alright, consider me off duty until further notice,” he instructed. “No messages unless it’s flagged either red or black.”   
  
“Yes sire,” the assistant said, hastily moving out of his way so he could pass.   
  
Charles spent the walk trying to guess whether or not Nathan had bothered to shower. Quite possibly not. The jet pilot had reported that all of the band members had been given clean clothes and footwear, and that what they’d been wearing prior to that wardrobe change had needed to be burned… So, when he arrived at his office door, he braced himself and reached out to push it open.   
  
There was Nathan, in all his unwashed, unshaven glory, hair frizzed to almost twice its normal volume, rummaging through Charles’ desk.   
  
That was a shock, though he knew his face didn’t give it away — and he knew suddenly why his assistants had been so anxious about telling him. In all the time he’d worked for Dethklok, throughout all the lamp smashing meetings, drunken rants, and Pickles trying to get into the more visible of his office safes in search of drugs, _no one_ had fucked with his desk. Even when he’d first returned from his nine month absence it had barely been touched, and that was clearly just to find things like pens, post-its, his entire stash of white-out, and a calculator. To see this happening now, right in front of him, was a violation.   
  
Nathan’s eyes met his as he stepped inside and there was something almost feral in that piercing green stare. He growled low in his throat and pointed straight at Charles. “YOU.” Then, for effect or something, he picked up a stapler and threw it at the nearest wall. “I know you had something to do with it, so you might as well admit it!"   
  
Charles' jaw tightened. He didn't have time for this, not with the label breathing down his neck and the threat of the Half Man hanging over all of them and the constant headaches interspersed with blinding premonitions.   
  
"Nathan, stop it. If you want to talk, that's fine, but I'm not going to stand here and watch you trash my office just to make some kind of point."   
  
Nathan ignored him, except to continue glaring. “You let her send us on that... _vacation_ .” He spat the word as though it was ‘vegetables’ or ‘sobriety,’ then ripped a drawer out and dumped the contents out on top of the desk, pawing through the  pile with both hands. "You know what the best part of that vacation was? GOING THROUGH OTHER PEOPLE’S GARBAGE FOR FOOD. You always know everything, there’s no way that could've happened without you hearing about it first!”   
  
So presumably the reason for the desecration of his desk was to find some sort of proof to support that theory. Charles tried to take a deep breath, but that turned out to be a tactical error. The BO Nathan was radiating after… what, five days? … of not bathing and scavenging for food in a Middle Eastern country had its own physical presence. He coughed in his efforts not to gag.   
  
“Well,” he began, making a passable attempt at sounding reasonable, but Nathan interrupted.   
  
“DON’T GIVE ME THAT WELL SHIT. You always do that!”   
  
“Do… what?”   
  
“That… being the manager shit instead of actually fucking answering the question. You always act like everything is normal, when it’s not!” Nathan shoved everything on the desktop to the floor and reached for another drawer to dump out. “You disappeared for nine fucking months, and then suddenly you come back and you know shit like… like where we go if we leave without telling you, and exactly what to do if there’s going to be a war that nobody fucking wants, and… AHHHH.”   
  
The incoherent bellow would have made a lesser — or living — man take an automatic step back. Charles stayed where he was, watching the bull in a china shop tearing pages out of his notepads. He was starting to feel a prickle of actual emotion at the sight and his patience was starting to seriously fray at the edges. “Are you complaining?” he asked icily. “It always ends up for the best. You boys are safe, well-supplied with food and booze, and making money hand over fist even in the midst of a massive economic recession.”   
  
“NO!” Nathan yelled, then seemed to catch up with the rest of the words Charles had just said and stumbled over them in confusion. “Uh…” Scowling darkly, he looked down at the papers in his hand as if they held some sort of way to rekindle the flagging fire of his tantrum.   
  
“The ends justify the means, Nathan,” Charles continued. His blood was starting to pound in his ears and a black, black anger was welling up in his chest. “Fine, you had a terrible time. I’m sorry. It was an awful vacation. But you were never in actual danger, I made sure of that. All of you got out safely, the Dethjet was standing by to bring you home, and the brutality of the entire experience has evidently solved that little writer’s block problem you were having. So what _exactly_ is your objection here?”   
  
Somehow, by the end of the last sentence, he was almost yelling. He hadn’t felt like this since the double booking incident, and it was both a welcome break from his emotionally flat existence and a terrifying, uncontrollable wave that he wasn’t sure he could ride.   
  
What made it worse was Nathan not reacting to what he’d just said at all. Something he’d ripped out of one of the notepads had distracted him, and he snatched it up with a crinkle of paper.   
  
“What’s this?”   
  
Charles narrowed his eyes, striding further into the room and stopping just short of the chairs in front of the desk, where the toes of his polished shoes just barely touched the outer edge of debris that littered the floor. “What’s what? The mess you’ve made of my office?”   
  
“No.” Nathan’s voice had gone quieter, deeper, more ominous. He looked up at Charles again through a fall of black hair — and if his glare had been angry before, now it was nearly incandescent. “What.” He came out around the desk, advancing on Charles. “The fuck.” He reached his manager and shoved the crumpled yellow paper into his chest. “Is this?”   
  
It fluttered down to the floor as soon as he moved his hand away and Charles made no move to catch it. But it landed face up on the floor at his feet, and he could read it just fine from there.   
  
At the top of the paper were the words _My Investments_ . At the bottom was a thumbnail-sized stain of dried blood.   
  
“What aren’t you telling us, you fucking douchebag?” Nathan demanded, looming over him threateningly. “Are you dying or something? Is that why you’re ‘passing the time until it’s all over’?” 

“You—”

“SHUT UP!” Nathan roared in his face. “You fucking left, and let us just think you were dead! Then you come back acting all weird, like maybe you were going to say to hell with this and take off again. Is that what you’re doing?”  
  
"I never wanted to leave in the first place,” Charles snapped. “And you know I can't tell you anything right now.” The pounding of his blood was only making his underlying headache worse, and between that and lack of recent practice he was dangerously close to losing his grip on his temper.   
  
“No,” Nathan growled, and grabbed his tie. “You fucking listen to me, Offdensen, I’m not stupid. You’ve been acting weird. You pretend to drink with us, but you dump your glass out whenever you think we’re not looking. And last week Toki said he saw your nose bleeding. He may have called it a blowjob, but I know what he _meant_ ."   
  
The grip on Charles’ tie yanked him forward a step until they were practically nose to nose. And Nathan’s breath was… very unpleasant at the moment.   
  
"You run around all day and night doing who the fuck knows what, and you pretend like everything’s fine, but it’s not. So if you’re going to leave, or hamburger time on us again, you fucking TELL ME. Because I’m the one who’s gonna have to deal with stupid Toki being sad and burning snacks, and Pickles with his fucking locket picture, and Murderface putting sand and goddamn neon lights everywhere—”   
  
With every name Nathan tugged a little harder for emphasis, tightening the tie around Charles’ neck like a noose. The words were almost as bad, painting a picture of what it had been like for the frontman trying to hold things together while he’d been gone, and it wasn’t fair at all because Charles had never wanted any of that to happen. Ever. Or ever again, but fate didn’t seem prepared to give him a fucking choice.   
  
He also couldn’t breathe. With black beginning to edge his vision and adrenaline spiking in his blood like a drug, he pulled back a little and punched Nathan in the center of his chest. Not hard enough to hurt him, just to even the field, being-able-to-breathe-wise.   
  
Immediately the larger man let go with a wheeze as the blow to his solar plexus shocked all the air out of his lungs. He stumbled back into the nearest chair and knocked it over, falling with a crash. Charles took advantage of the sudden freedom by loosening his tie past the point of business casual. He resisted the mental impulse to rub his neck; his body knew it was fine, that was enough, and he had other worries to contend with. For one, there was still black creeping into the edges of his vision, even though he could breathe freely now, and there was a hard, angry knot in his chest. For another, Nathan was picking himself up.   
  
As soon as he was on his feet he lunged towards the smaller man with a roar, grabbing him and apparently intending to pin him to the nearest wall using sheer bulk. Reacting purely on instinct, Charles twisted away and leapt forward at the same time, evading Nathan's grasp and getting his own hands on Nathan's shoulders, holding him at arm’s length. They hit the desk instead, each banging a hip on the mahogany edge.   
  
It was a small pain, but it triggered something. A memory of twilit storm clouds and invisible eyes watching, all focused on one necessary act. Something needing to be destroyed. A flash of white hot light, and his head hurt, hurt like a premonition and getting punched in the face all at once—   
  
Charles lashed out blindly and disengaged, stumbling back to clutch at his head. It seemed as though there was a gaping pit at his feet, bottomless and full of the same howling oblivion that he could feel blowing through the gaps in his soul from time to time. He wasn’t in it yet, but his toes were curled over the edge and he was inescapably aware that it was there.   
  
He felt his lips moving, silently reciting one of the meditation mantras Ishnifus had instructed him to use. I _am a gear in the wheel of the Klok, I am a gear in the wheel..._ After a few more recitations, when his breathing evened and the black feeling in him receded, he forced himself to stop. He tasted blood, and reached up automatically to rub at the trickle with the back of his hand.   
  
Nathan was down again, amidst the rubble of a now definitely broken chair. The frontman groaned and sat up slowly.   
  
Apparently they had both gotten some hits in.   
  
“Don’t do that again,” Charles said quietly, and more hoarsely than before. It wasn’t a threat, just flat and exhausted.   
  
“You... you fucking hit me,” Nathan wheezed in disbelief from the floor. “That’s... such a dick move."   
  
Despite how drained he felt, Charles almost laughed. "I think we're even on that score," he said, and walked over to offer him a hand up. At least only one of them was bleeding, though he wasn’t sure that was Nathan’s fault.   
  
Nathan eyed the hand and looked uncomfortable, either because it was the one that had just punched him or because accepting help wasn’t metal. But the way he’d fallen on and broken the chair made it difficult to pick himself up on his own — rather like a turtle stuck on its back — so in the end he accepted it with a huff.   
  
"You really need a shower," Charles informed him, slipping back into the role of band babysitter out of habit. It was oddly comforting in the wake of… whatever that feeling of nearly being pitched into oblivion had been. "Come on, you can use mine. Shower, shave... I'll have another set of clean clothes sent up for you. Then, if you still want to talk, we'll talk."   
  
After leaving an unprotesting Nathan in the bathroom with a set of spare towels, Charles got the glass of water from his bedside table and took his medication. Then he dipped a handkerchief in the glass and used the hall mirror to clean the blood off his face. The makeup covering his scar had been smudged but it wasn't terribly noticeable, nor was the beginnings of a bruise on his cheek. Once he felt presentable again he went back out to his office to wearily begin cleaning up the mess.   
  
The door and chair were simple; he merely sent a work ticket to the maintenance team and Klokateers showed up within minutes to repair or replace as needed. The contents of his desk, however, he picked up and reorganized himself.   
  
Once that was finished, he retreated back to his private rooms. He checked that the shower was still running and spilling steam throughout the entire apartment, then sat on the bed pulled out his dethphone. Not to make a call — the last thing he now wanted was to be overheard. It was just a text, short and to the point, saying that he needed actual answers. In person.   
  
He tossed the phone aside and leaned back against the headboard and pillows.   
  
What the hell had happened out there? It had been like falling back into the night the liquid master had been destroyed, like a thundering NO in his head and body and blood. If it was a message it was probably something along the lines of ‘don’t fight the chosen ones.’ A punishment.   
  
_Maybe I should’ve just taken my suffocation like a man_ , Charles thought miserably. If he’d actually passed out, he was pretty sure Nathan wouldn’t have hit him, but he’d just been too angry to let that happen and he didn’t know why.   
  
He hadn’t expected the confrontation because nothing like it had happened before. The boys, collectively and individually, had threatened him and occasionally thrown things in his general direction, but none of them had gotten pissed enough to start an actual fight. And sure, Nathan tended to think with his fists... Hadn’t he seemed to pay more attention lately, though, and possibly, maybe, even care a little?   
  
No, Charles realized suddenly, that had been exactly why. Not the recent so-called vacation; Nathan’s tipping point had been jumping to the conclusion that his manager was dying and hadn’t bothered to tell them. Which... was completely accurate.   
  
While he was going over that in his head, running through the facts of his condition and the many reasons why he had barely admitted most of them even to himself, sleep caught up with him. His head slowly dropped until his chin rested on his chest, and he dozed to the background noise of the shower still running.   
  
~   
  
“Hey. Charles. Wake up.”   
  
Unwilling to let go of the pleasant drifting feeling of sleep, he tried to ignore the voice. And he wasn’t sure, but had something just touched his hair?   
  
“Hey.”   
  
A big hand gripped his shoulder and shook him with a gentleness which, later, he’d remember to be surprised by. Charles groaned softly and reluctantly opened his eyes. “What?”   
  
At some point during his impromptu nap, Charles had tipped over and was lying on his side across the pillows at the head of the bed. Nathan was leaning over him, hair damp from the shower but otherwise back to it’s normal volume. That was good, Charles felt vaguely. It had looked almost comical before.   
  
“I, uh. Left my clothes in the bathroom. You can have those burned too if you want, they’re pretty rank.”   
  
Struggling to focus, Charles blinked up at him. Damn the medication for making him feel like muzzy right now. Or was that just general lack of sleep? He slowly realized that Nathan was naked except for the expensive monogrammed CFO towel wrapped around his waist, and wondered why he hadn’t put out the spare towels... No, he had. Trust Nathan to make himself at home enough to use his personal towels.   
  
“Clean clothes are on top of the dresser,” he said, pointing stupidly. As Nathan moved away to get them, he sat up and started straightening his glasses, hair, suit, everything. When the other man dropped his towel to get dressed right there across the room, he busied himself with undoing and retying his much abused tie.   
  
One thing about being the Dead Man that he was grateful for: a year and change ago he would’ve had a great deal of trouble keeping his composure in a situation like this. The urge to look was resistible. The rush of helpless attraction wasn’t there. And... he felt unusually at peace with that, as though all his resentment had drained away in his sleep.   
  
“How long was I asleep?” Charles asked, pushing his glasses up to rub at his eyes.   
  
“Dunno.” Jean’s already on, Nathan pulled his t-shirt over his head and tugged his hair out of it with a practiced flick. “I took a really long shower. Uh, you might want to have them clean that too. Drain’s kinda clogged.”   
  
Not surprising, Charles thought, glancing at the man’s long black hair. There was undoubtedly a clot of it caught in the shower drain that was not for the faint of heart to witness. He sighed and stood, stretching subtly so as to not further disrupt the lines of his suit. Then he felt eyes on him and looked up to meet Nathan’s intense green stare.   
  
“So. Uh. I don’t really want to talk,” Nathan said gruffly. “It’s... whatever, man. We’re good.” He moved closer to Charles, in a way that might have been slightly threatening if it weren’t so awkward. “Just don't… go anywhere again. And don’t tell anyone you knocked me on my ass, okay?”   
  
“That sounds fair,” Charles agreed, casually sidestepping the first request.   
  
He was surprised when Nathan grinned and clapped him on the shoulder, and at how long the contact lingered. He was even more surprised when Nathan Explosion, world renowned metal god, dove forward and planted a dry, very nervous kiss on his mouth.

It was extremely brief, but just long enough for Charles to taste the toothpaste on his breath and know, _know_ , that the other man had used his toothbrush.   
  
Then the moment passed and Nathan was bolting for the door. Charles didn’t follow, just stood there stock still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.   
  
Suddenly his rooms had never seemed so empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, it is a slow burn! There was some smooching in this chapter! ... There will be more later, but don't hold your breath, it's gonna be a wait. 
> 
> It's chapters like these that make me really feel like I must write a sequel, also covering seasons three through DSR, from Nathan's pov, because Charles just has no idea what's going on in that man's head.


	6. ~ chapter 5 ~ home is where you rest your bones ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles thinks a lot about the events of the previous chapter, and the Church finally provides him with a few more answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Set:** Season 4, eps 7-8 (Dethcamp, Dethvanity).  
>  **Disclaimer:** I own nothing.  
>  **Chapter song:** Home by Gabrielle Alpin. Please ignore the line that mentions being a daughter, I officially declare that one as not counting.

**_And the death song_ **

**_of the man who stands behind shadows_ **

**_began._ **

  
  
  


On the surface, nothing had changed.  Nathan didn’t avoid him, exactly — Charles knew enough to give the man his space, and now that Abigail had successfully gotten the band working on the new album the entire band spent most of their waking hours in the studio. It was a convenient excuse to not call any band meetings for the time being and schedule a “business trip.” Ishnifus had finally promised to answer some of his questions, and though Charles spotted the obvious loophole in the phrasing he was prepared to take whatever he could get. In the sea of confusion that his life as the Dead Man had become, he  _ needed _ answers, even if it was only some. 

The day he left, he found four fifths of Dethklok in the kitchen sitting around the saw blade table. Nathan’s eyes locked on him in a sullen glare as soon as he entered the room, and the front man’s sudden distraction caught Pickles’ attention too. 

“Ah, good afternoon,” Charles began. What the hell, they could fill Toki in later. “Just dropping by to let you know that someone in Europe has been posting videos of your Pentuplemint Gum ad online—”

“What?” Murderface screeched, suddenly paying attention and spraying a fine mist of chocolate pudding everywhere. “That flaming pile of crap? I thought you buried that! What the hell are we paying thisch guy for?!”

“And it’s been shut down, but there’s a delay in extraditing the culprit for retribution,” Charles continued, smoothly delivering the second half of the cover story. “I’m heading over there to speed things up and get this resolved as quickly as possible.”

Pickles shrugged disinterestedly. “Okie, whatever. Do what ya gotta do.”

Charles found himself glancing at Nathan, who merely glared back. Whatever that meant. He mentally sighed and tried to ignore it. 

"So, I'm gonna be out of town for a few days. Ah, Pickles, Nathan, I'm trusting the two of you to keep an eye on the rest of the band while I'm gone, okay?”

That got a reaction from everyone but Skwisgaar, who may or may not have been listening in favor of playing guitar. 

"Why do we have to be in charge?” Nathan demanded suspiciously, reminding Charles uncomfortably of their argument. His knuckles were starting to whiten around the handle of his That’s Doable mug. 

_ What does he think I’m going to do, announce what happened to the room? _

“Because you two are the most responsible,” Charles replied, meeting Nathan’s angry stare and fully expecting objections for the sake of contradicting him. And he was not disappointed. 

"That's bullshit!”

“You're responsible, not us,” Pickles whined, glancing very briefly at Nathan as if to say,  _ I’m still mad at him, don’t lump us in together _ . 

"Fucking call us responsible…" Nathan muttered darkly. 

“Well, you are the most responsible,” Charles told them patiently. 

"Yeah, well fuck you too,” the frontman snapped back. 

That was probably the best send off he was going to get. None of them were the kind of men comfortable with saying goodbye or thank you or showing any kind of appreciation for the massive amount of work Charles did on a daily basis, but he’d already known that. It was part of the orientation speech he gave every time he took on a new assistant. But in a way, he’d both hoped and dreaded that this time would be different.

"Alright,” he said blandly. “See you when I get back."

As he left the room he heard Murderface spit pudding again and complain, "Agh! Are we having sugar-free pudding again?!”

Charles sighed, as behind him life in Mordhaus went on unchanged. At least he didn’t have too much of a headache today, otherwise he might actually qualify for feeling like complete shit. 

~

There was a particular ambiance to the Church’s underwater caverns. It was the first thing Charles had noticed when he’d shakily begun regaining consciousness in his sickbed. At first he’d thought he was hearing the ticking of a clock, but it was just the soft, steady drip of water echoing in the distance. Then there was the smell of brine diluted by freshwater springs, wet stone, and burning candles. 

He didn’t understand how underwater caverns could be ventilated well enough to have so many candles and torches, but he had never gone so far as to ask. The chances of it being due to something he didn’t want to wrap his head around were too high. 

“Welcome, my friend,” Ishnifus greated, arms outstretched to offer Charles a furred cloak similar to his own, but with black cloth instead of red. For the first time, Charles noticed that the priest’s nails were painted with matte black polish. 

It was also cold in the caves, something he hadn’t felt as sharply before. As he took the cloak and shrugged it on, the monks of the welcome party bowed and padded quietly off about their own business. 

“Hello again,” Charles finally said, feeling awkward. He wasn’t sure if he could think of the High Holy Priest as a friend, exactly… The man had a largely unknown agenda, and years of watching his own and Dethklok’s backs both literally and figuratively made it hard for Charles to trust that. It was one of the reasons he hadn’t really had any friends for a long time. 

The priest gave him a knowing look, and gestured towards the main path that led deeper into the Church of the Black Klok. “Walk with me."

They walked in silence for several minutes. Charles, as usual, eyed the blue flames smoldering atop the pathway torches and wondered what kind of additive they used to get that color. Copper chloride? High proof liquor? Was there a purpose to it besides mere ambiance? To either side of the path, dark and brackish water lapped on stone and glinted with reflected firelight caught by the ripples sent out by occasional drips. Stalagmites and stalactites reached for each other, some already fused together into thick pillars, and they seemed faintly blue as well. Could be nature, could be a trick of the light. 

“You have questions,” Ishnifus said finally. 

“I’ve always had questions,” Charles replied, and was surprised that he didn’t feel as bitter about that as he once had. 

The priest shook his head, not in disagreement but as though he was listening to something happening far in the distance. “But something is different now.”

They were still walking side by side, not looking at each other, and although Charles had what was probably one of the best poker faces in the world, he was glad. Ishnifus had a way of looking straight into him that was deeply unsettling. Maybe it didn’t even require actually looking, but he was glad anyway. 

“When you left here, those many months ago, there was an anger within your heart,” the old man continued. “You could have returned at any time but you chose now, and you have come with different questions.”

"Well... yes," Charles admitted. 

"Good. As time passes, this change will continue to be so. But I would like you to answer one thing before we begin."

There was that uneasy feeling again. "Alright. What?"

"Do you know why you have chosen now to return here?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but Ishnifus put a hand on his arm and they slowed to a stop on the path. Charles turned reluctantly towards the priest.

"Do not give the answers that lie closest to the surface. Look into your deeper self and tell me your  _ true _ reason."

At a loss, Charles pressed his lips together in a thin line and looked it across the still water. The flickering light played across the surface and made it impossible to tell how deep the pools went — maybe up to his ankle, maybe all the way down to the ocean floor. There was almost a hypnotic quality to the way it seemed to move in the light. Moving without moving. 

There was no wind down here. But he could remember feeling it, the last time...

“I feel different,” he said slowly. “I don’t know how to put it into words, but I think it might be significant.” Then he frowned. “I, ah, don’t think I noticed that before.”

“Good,” Ishnifus said encouragingly. “When did you begin to feel different?”

Charles concentrated. It bothered him to not already have an answer ready. In his professional life he always had the answers at his fingertips, poised on the tip of his tongue — it made meetings and delegation more efficient without sacrificing precision. Here, as just the Dead Man, it seemed as though precision was all that mattered. 

“I was… arguing with Nathan,” he answered finally. “I was so angry, I’m not even sure why. Then I had another one of those blinding headaches, Nathan punched me in the face, and… I wasn’t angry anymore, just tired.” Bone tired. And although he had recently become quite skilled at pushing through exhaustion, that time it had caught up with him in less than an hour and kept him out until the frontman had woken him. 

“Ahh,” Ishnifus sighed in satisfaction. “He has drawn it out of you.”

Charles looked up sharply. “What?”

“The poison from your veins. The darkness that was clinging to your soul, despite our best efforts.”

Frustratingly, the old man began walking again. Charles had to put on a short burst of speed to catch up again. 

“I don’t understand. What are you talking about? What darkness?” The feeling of a phantom wind fluttering the loose edges of his tattered soul came back to him — not in fact, only in memory, and it occurred to him that he hadn’t felt that in a while either. Not since the night Nathan had struck him. 

“When the Half Man cursed you he burned your soul from your body with black fire,” Ishnifus explained calmly, “and though we did what we could to restore you, traces of that blackness remained. It became a shadow, a dark mirror of your own soul, with no aim of purpose beyond destruction. Your Nathan brought it forth and destroyed it for you, just as he knew to destroy the wrong message before it was released into the world.”

Charles felt a tightness in his chest as he compared the revelation to his experiences. The hard knot in his chest that he’d felt more than once, the feeling that he had lost control of what had seemed like his own temper, the black creeping along the edges of his vision that night just before Nathan had punched him. A punch that had made him see stars — or maybe just the blinding light of a kind of dawn, banishing the inky hold of night. 

He didn’t say any of that out loud. What he said, with a faint edge of almost hysterical humor, was, “So what you’re saying is, he literally punched that out of me.”

It made sense, in the fucked up way where it should have been impossible but had happened anyway. Like being cursed by the Half Man. Like being brought back to life. Like having visions of the future that actually came true right down to the fine fucking details, and every other thing that had happened to him ever since the attack on Mordhaus. Which seemed like only yesterday, but had happened  _ years _ ago now. Two, almost three years of impossible things, all compounding to weigh him down until he couldn’t function, because apparently he was the butt of some sick cosmic joke. 

He suddenly couldn’t stand the feel of the coverup on his face and wiped hard at his cheek. It made the bruise ache, but it was a grounding pain. Nathan had struck him on the same side as his scar, so he was uncovering that too, but what did it matter? There was no point of pretending that both things weren’t there, not here at a secret Church at the bottom of the Atlantic. 

They walked in silence for some time while Charles tried to wrap his head around this new information. At the same time, he kept half an eye on their surroundings. The tunnel they had come to was much smaller than the caverns, and not only curved but sloped gently upward as well. Narrow gutters had been carved on either side of the path, presumably by the twin streams of water that trickled down through each. He had only been in the Church for a few months, the last time, and most of that he had been confined to bed rest; he wasn’t sure if he had forgotten this tunnel or had simply never been in it before. 

“If that, ah... if it’s gone,” he began at last, “Does that mean... Does that change anything?”

“You are still the Dead Man,” Ishnifus replied matter-of-factly. 

Charles swallowed on some rude language that came to mind. “Ah. So I’m still dying, then?” He kept his gaze fixedly ahead, watching the upcoming curve of the tunnel, and thought he could see a change in the quality of light up ahead. 

“That remains to be seen.”

“By what, the next CT scan I have?”

The priest sighed. “Charles... What you must understand about prophecy is that it is not always exact. Sometimes it can be, when it is an event of great consequence. However, sometimes when it is of the  _ utmost _ consequence, the details are lacking. Prophesy is meant to guide us, not pre-determine why we choose the paths we take.”

Charles frowned. “So you’re saying you don’t know if I’m going to die or not? I was taking an awful lot on faith that you knew knew anything about this to begin with—”

And then, with very little warning, the tunnel ended and opened into a massive space. It was bigger than any part of the Church Charles had yet seen and he fell silent in spite of himself. There were no torches here as far as he could see, but somehow there was enough light to see by. 

He looked up and nearly fell over backwards. 

Not because of the cathedral-esque height of the huge chamber, which would have made him feel like one of those idiot tourists who went to New York City and stood around gawking at how tall the skyscrapers were. Not because of the ceiling, either, which was transparent and offered a fishbowl view of the open ocean from beneath, with sunlight filtering down thin and blue from far, far above. No, what made him feel as though the ground tilted beneath him was the sight of a pod of whales hanging directly overhead. At first, he forgot he was awake and standing in an enclosed dome. His hand flew to his forehead, half expecting either a thought-splitting voice in his head or for the ocean to suddenly come crashing down over him, lifting him to float before the Sea Prophet once more. 

When nothing happened, he swallowed hard and looked down, trying to regain his composure. 

“You could have warned me,” he complained stiffly. 

Ishnifus, always so serious, gave him the barest hint of a smile. “It would not have helped. Seeing is the only thing that can prepare you for such a sight. Come, I must show you what you can do now that your powers are unencumbered.”

The massive space was, upon more detailed inspection, a kind of flattened amphitheater, sloping gently upwards like the tunnel that had brought them here. A thick lip of rocky spikes jutted up beyond the last row of amphitheater steps, curving in slightly like jagged teeth of an unspeakable leviathan. The ceiling followed it’s contours and formed a dome. Except for the fact that all the water was on the outside, it reminded Charles of a snow globe. 

He kept looking around as Ishnifus lead him towards the central space, but his attention snapped back to the immediate when the texture of stone under his shoes abruptly changed. Most of the stone pathways through the honeycomb of caverns and tunnels and underground lakes were worn from centuries of human habitation, almost sandy from the thousands of sandaled feet that regularly walked them. Here, though, the stone was polished and completely flat except for a series of etched lines filled with red and orange sand. It wasn’t until they arrived in the very center that Charles realized the lines formed a pentagram within a circle, each side long enough for five full grown men lying head to toe between the circular pattern set at each point. There was a similar circle pattern in the center of the star, with curved lines radiating out to the edges of the enclosing circle. 

The amphitheater was deathly quiet. 

“What is this place?” Charles asked. His voice was hushed, because that was the kind of reverence the space seemed to demand. Whatever it was, he already sensed its importance. 

“It is the highest chamber within the church,” Ishnifus replied in similar tones. “Stand in the center of the pentagram."

There was no point in hesitating. The Church had given him new life, new power, and terrifying insight. Everything Ishnifus had ever told him  _ felt _ true, even if that was uncomfortable to admit to himself. Charles stepped onto the central point. 

As soon as he did, the lines of sand began to glow with a slow, pulsing light, starting in the center and spreading throughout the entire design — a hauntingly familiar blue-red. As it gradually grew brighter and deepened into pure red edged with just a faint vibration of blue, Charles could feel it syncing with the rhythm of his heartbeat, quieting his budding concern over what exactly he’d just gotten himself into. Not that he wasn’t neck-deep in it already...

**_There was no pain. He felt lighter than he ever had before, floating free in the open ocean. The Sea Prophet turned to him with glacial grace and sang, COME. Then he was swimming to follow, swimming..._ **

**_He heard,_** _Oh shit little kid. You just fucked up real bad._

**_... Running, legs pumping hard to catch up, air burning in his lungs, a fierce and cutthroat protectiveness —_** _my band my band MY BAND_ ** _with every footfall — boiling in his blood. Stupid slippers making it harder to keep his footing. Gripping the base of a broken snow globe so hard that the edge was cutting into his palm._**

**_Breathing hard, but not too hard to corner the little bastard in the woods and menacingly ask,_** _Which hand do you fret with?_

**_He felt a strange surge of something in the air around him, behind him. Not electricity, but something similar. Power. The ecstasy of violence but more focused than that, as though he was the head of a spear about to do what it was forged for._ **

**_Nathan advanced. Charles remained standing where he had been, and turned to see the full moon drenched in blood-red light._ **

**_A pale reflection of the star to come._ **

Charles gasped as though he hadn’t taken a breath for several moments and stumbled backwards out of the circle. While he appreciated not waking up on the floor after a vision with a splitting headache for a change, this almost as disconcerting. 

“You could have warned me,” he said again weakly. 

Ishnifus shrugged. “ _ The star will turn to blood on this prophet’s night _ ,” he intoned, and it was clear from his tone that he was quoting prophesy again. “ _ On such a night, the death song of the man who stands behind shadows began, and before the dethlights shine upon the five, one of us must die _ .”

So many questions crowded in Charles mind, but out of practice it only took him a moment to sort them into the order they’d arrived. 

“Was that vision real? The moon actually turned red?” he demanded. 

The priest merely looked at him. The entire amphitheater was awash in a red glow, not unlike the control room back at Mordhaus. Some of it came from the red sand, though that diminished and still fading; the rest, he realized, came from above. 

“... Did I do that?”

“It has not yet come to pass,” Ishnifus told him slowly, calmly. “But it might be you. It might be Nathan. He is, after all, a prophet to many around the world. He is the one who will deliver the message.”

Charles didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, exactly, but he felt a remaining trace of that raw protectiveness flair in him again. If being a prophet was anything like being the Dead Man, he wanted to keep the frontman ignorant of it all for as long as possible. The mind-bending frustration of not understanding what was really going on behind all this, the reluctance to believe even in spite of proof — let the sharp reality of it all remain impossible to Nathan for at least a little while longer. 

“Who is the man behind shadows?” he demanded next. Already his mind was racing to examine the options. Was it himself, the Dead Man, whose death cloaked him from the Half Man’s sight? Was it Ishnifus, the master of a secret Church deep within a cave at the bottom of the ocean? Was it one of the boys? Someone else close to them?

Or perhaps it was the Metal-Masked Assassin that he had been struggling to track down ever since his return? Someone who threatened death. Maybe the death the prophecy mentioned would be victory over him... But no, that bastard had vowed revenge against Dethklok a long time ago. As far as he could sense, nothing particularly new would come from that quarter. 

“That much is unclear. It may even be hinting at different things and more than one person,” the old man replied. “And what you have just seen will not happen for several days yet.” He turned and began walking back towards the tunnel. “There is more we must do, but the hour grows late. Your room has been prepared for you.”

~

It was the same room. The narrow bed with a surprisingly comfortable mattress, the high stone headboard, the complete lack of all other furnishings or decoration save the emblem of the Dead Man carved into both sides of the door. Doors were a luxury in the Church, since the humidity made wood tend towards rot, but his unasked for position afforded him one. Ishnifus left him there, receding quietly into the torch-lit distance until Charles was alone with only his thoughts. 

A dinner tray was waiting for him on the end of the bed, and for a moment Charles had an unsettling flashback to the tasteless, lumpy porridge they’d made him eat while he was still recovering. But when he lifted the cover it turned out to be some kind of fish and vegetable stew and a thick slice of warm, crusty bread, with a small lemon wedge. Everything came with a damn lemon wedge down here, to help ward off the possibility of scurvy. 

As he ate, his mind drifted back to his confrontation with Nathan, adding to his recollections from what he had just learned. 

Nathan had been in his office, going through his things. Nathan had visions too, which Charles had surmised before, though he was still unsure how much the frontman was aware of. 

Charles had experienced a welling up of the black leftovers from the Half Man’s curse. Maybe Nathan had sensed that, been sensing it ever since the CFO’s return, and maybe not being able to put his finger on what was off about Charles was part of why he’d been so angry. So he’d responded the way he usually did to an objectionable obstacle and punched Charles in the face. After that, Charles had felt the sudden absence as exhaustion, like a bad cold that had finally passed but left him drained from fighting it. Nathan hadn’t been inclined to fight him anymore, either. Herding him into the much-needed shower had been surprisingly easy, which Charles would have paid more attention to at the time had he not felt so tired. 

And perhaps… Charles remembered the aftereffects of the last time he’d shared a vision with Nathan. The dreams filled with white-hot rush that he had actually  _ felt _ and Nathan’s voice growling in his ear. Maybe it had happened again, only to Nathan instead. That could explain the, um. The kiss.

Even thinking about it bothered him. Not because it was crossing a line that his professionalism would never have allowed him to approach, not because Nathan had sprinted out of the room immediately afterwards — but because as the Dead Man, he hadn’t felt anything. Not  _ anything _ . It was painful to think that he’d finally gotten what he would have never in a million years expected, and didn’t even have it in him to appreciate it anymore. 

_ One of us must die _ , Ishnifus had told him. That could mean anyone, but deep down, Charles already knew it would have to be himself. He was the Dead Man, after all. It was right there in the title. 

He slept poorly that night. Nightmares scudded across his sleeping mind like clouds caught in a high wind. Occasionally he would jolt awake in a cold sweat — he blamed it on the humidity in the underwater caves and rolled over to slip back into bad dreams. 

~

Frustratingly, Ishnifus didn’t reveal anything else important for the rest of the visit. By the time Charles left to return to Mordhaus he had, instead of being told anything new, had been forced to dredge up and repolish his foreign language skills from school — French in high school and Latin in undergrad. Not that his life was totally lacking in the latter, since legal jargon always involved some smattering of the language, but the High Holy Priest insisted that he become fluently literate in as many languages as possible. Simply knowing enough words and phrases to conduct a business meeting, glad-hand, and more or less follow a spoken conversation wasn’t good enough. 

Charles put up with it, even the assignment to start learning to read Hebrew, Arabic, and Mandarin within the next week, because he was optimistic enough to think that maybe it meant gaining access to the Church’s  _ real _ library at some point, the one where they kept the source texts and artifacts. And he’d always been fairly handy with languages. He would just pencil the studying into his (haha) spare time. 

As soon as he returned to Mordland grounds, Toki tracked him down and began babbling excitedly about his adventures at Rock-a-Roony Fantasy Camp and how the rest of the band had come to his rescue in the end. 

“That’s, ah, great, Toki,” Charles replied, glad he had taken something for his daily ambient headache long enough before his arrival for it to have already kicked in. "I’m glad Nathan and Pickles took what I said about responsibility seriously.”

“Yeah! And there was an awesomes blood moon and I mades a real cool new friend what’s who’s Magnus who what’s used to be in Dethklok!”

Charles paused mid-step and turned to look at the excited rhythm guitarist, who was bouncing happily on the balls of his feet. “Magnus. Magnus Hammersmith?”

“Yeah, he was ats camp as a counskilpers.” Toki grinned. “Do you thinks Magnus and Dr. Rockso woulds gets along? Toki could invites them for the sleepovers, oh wowee this is so much cools!”

“I…” Charles pressed his glasses back up on his nose, even though they’d been just fine where they were. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. The rest of the band has some, ah, unpleasant history with… well, both of them, really. But I’m glad you made a new friend. Really. Good, ah, job on that, Toki.”

Toki beamed, then bounced forward and gave his manager a bear hug that was only half unexpected, given the Norwegian’s buoyant mood. In the past Charles had always had to force himself not to tense at the abrupt invasion of his personal bubble; now it was easy as breathing. He even managed to give the younger man a few awkward pats on the back.

“Hey,” Toki said as he let go and pulled back, “how comes you smells like a lemon?”

“Oh, that.” Charles put on a grimace. “The, ah, place I was staying during my business trip served every meal with a wedge of lemon. And it was also in the soap.”

All of Dethklok was easily distracted. That maxim alone had made Charles’ professional life both easier and more difficult for as long as he’d worked with them, and thankfully had kicked in just in time to rescue the Haus from what likely would have been a screaming maelstrom of revenge- and cocaine-related accidents. 

“Brutals,” Toki murmured thoughtfully. Then he turned on his heel and jogged off, yelling, “Bye Charleses!” over his shoulder. 

Charles sighed and continued on his way to the control room. 

His three assistants converged on him as soon as he arrived with various reports to deliver. Yes, Magnus had been a counselor at Rock-a-Roonie Fantasy Camp, but it hadn’t been a problem and, in fact, the former band member had even helped Toki get his insulin shot before the diabetic coma had a chance to set in. Yes, Nathan had chased a camper into the woods and reappeared half an hour later, alone, but steps had already been taken to ensure no one would ever comment on that. No, the man with the metal face had not been located, and all attempts to infiltrate his group of followers had failed. No, there had been no further reposts from the, ahem, special one-man department down in the sub-sub basement in his absence. Yes, Abigail was still coaxing progress on the new album out of the band. Yes, the economy was finally starting to trend upwards out of its slump, though progress was still slow and there was still the occasional grumble from the public. 

He sent them scurrying off again with new orders. A background check on Magnus, to see what the man had been up to for the past several years; a copy of all non-disclosure arrangements that had been made to be sent to his office for his perusal; an order for the science team to work harder on an anti-brainwashing solution; and so on. That taken care of, Charles had a brief conference with the head of security, then excused himself to his office. 

Only when he sat down in the familiar wingback chair behind his desk did he feel like he had come home. 

~

All of Dethklok was easily distracted. 

When Charles finally got around to calling a band meeting it was long overdue, and Nathan hardly gave him a second glance — the first glance was weighty enough, but one that, again, Charles found himself incapable of reading. 

It should have been a relief to not be stared at whenever they were in the same room, after months of being the target of that intense stare; it wasn’t. Instead, it reminded Charles of Nathan pulling on his tie, except the other man had let go and now he was off-balance, unsupported. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much, hadn’t thought anything  _ could _ bother him so much in the emotionally void state he’d been in since his death and resurrection. 

The frontman had clearly put on some weight recently, though. That was something concrete to focus on. Charles noticed the fact, and the newly everpresent plate of snacks, with concern but knew better than to mention it. With a twinge of guilt, he wondered if it was because of what had happened in his rooms. Not that it made sense to feel guilty, because  _ he _ hadn’t done anything, but still...

He also noticed that Toki was eating lemons (challenging himself to "endures the flavors, likes puttings your hands over an opens flame”) and Skwisgaar was guzzling coffee like there was no tomorrow. Pickles wasn’t doing anything new, but his dreds were falling out at an alarming rate and he was starting to complain about how much the reattachment process made his scalp sting. 

Murderface was… just himself. Mentioning the Brutalies didn’t help, even though Charles tried to soften the news, but he had to tell them. They would have seen it on the Dethklok Minute eventually. 

"Can't really tell if that's an award or a public insult,” Nathan declared, and that’s when Charles knew it was going to be one of those weeks. 

And he was right. In a matter of days Murderface was off to a plastic surgeon in a facility that Charles was deeply skeptical of, but after another lightning-strike premonition and heavy nosebleed he made sure to arrange a medical team standing by to reverse the horrible mess that was soon to be the bassist’s face. Soon after that, the other five were crowded into his office, all vying for similar procedures. 

“I wants the teeth whitens!” Skwisgaar yelled, banging the fist that wasn’t clutching his Skwisskull mug on Charles’ desk. 

“I wants the lips insjecks-tons!” Taki yelled, banging his fist down harder. 

“Stops copies me, Toki!"

“You gahtta do something about my hair, dood,” Pickles slurred in a confidential tone, crowded in close in a way that reminded Charles very unfavorably of Seth. His breath smelled like... a little bit of everything, really. “Let’s just, y'know, not replace it bit by bit. Have them put it  _ all _ back, all at once. Can you do that, can you make that happen for me?”

Charles put up with all this stoically, going over the Arabic alphabet in his head while they worked through their various demands, until Nathan pushed the now squabbling guitarists out of his way, planted both hands on the desk, and bellowed, “I’m FAT! The tabloids said I have MAN BOOBS! This is NOT OKAY!”

When the echoes of that died down, Charles closed his laptop with a sigh and folded his hands. “Alright,” he said calmly. “Skwisgaar, I’ll make you an appointment to get your teeth whitened. Toki, I will, ah, arrange those injections for you. And I strongly suggest that you switch to a sour sugar-free candy instead of actual lemons.”

Most of the injections available on and off the market would only last for several months, by which time this would probably blow over. The guitarists left off their squabbling in favor of looking smug that they’d gotten what they’d asked for. 

“Pickles, I will make you an appointment for your hair.” 

Privately he doubted how much science would be able to do, but one call to a good wig shop, some skin-safe adhesive, and a dose of something strong enough to actually render the drummer unconscious for a little while would solve that problem if absolutely necessary.

Charles glanced up at Nathan, who was still leaning with both hands on his desk. Hazel eyes met green ones and held them for the first time since the night of the kiss. "Nathan… I can’t in good conscience recommend liposuction. However,” he continued quickly, raising a placating hand when Nathan opened his mouth to protest, "I can look into some corset options for you that will be very difficult to move or breathe in. It’s by far the more brutal option.” And it would make overeating extremely uncomfortable, so it might even discourage him from continuing to put on weight.

Nathan mulled that over for a moment, staring his manager down as best he could. The thing was, Charles was much better at not blinking. He met that angry look and wondered how much of it was actually because he was denying the man something he wanted. 

Finally, Nathan looked away and grunted in grudging acceptance. “That’s fine, I guess.” He stepped back and crossed his arms. “Oh, and we all want to be tan! We’ve gotta look better than Murderface at this dildo-licking award thing you’re making us go to.”

“Ja, Mudderface ams pale as fish bellies,” Skwisgaar added scornfully. 

Charles resisted the urge to sigh again. “Alright, I’ll call a tanning salon and make appointments for you all.”

All their demands met, the boys devolved into gleefully continuing to insult their band mate to make themselves feel better. They were harsh, crude, and in many ways rather stupid. In other words, just another day with Dethklok. 

Except it wasn’t. It hadn’t been just another day with Dethklok since his return from death, not once, not really, because now he knew that everything was leading to some unbelievable destiny. And when Nathan didn’t look at Charles again as they left, it felt like an intentional snub.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting is slowing down because I still need to get started writing chapter eight before I catch up to myself. But I'm posting this chapter today because my parents are coming to visit and, ugh.


	7. ~ chapter 6 ~ with an aching in my head ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More is revealed about the Falconback project, and some other things… come to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Set:** Season 4, eps 9 (Going Downklok).   
> **Disclaimer:** I own nothing.   
> **Chapter song:** World Spins Madly On by The Wheepies. I’ve always felt this song was about wanting to be with someone but being unable to — for reasons of death or infidelity or something else very drastic and important. It wasn’t a huge stretch to apply it to Charles.

**_And they returned to the darkest depths_ **

**_to sink even lower._ **

  
  
  


The dreams were really starting to get to him. Charles had the vague feeling that they had started before he’d begun actually remembering anything upon waking — possibly as far a back as the Blood Moon during his visit to the Church, but that was neither here nor there. In those dreams, everything was a confused tumult of emotions, the complete opposite of his waking life. 

He could feel them. Each band member, sometimes all of them in one night, depending on what they were up to. When Toki had a nightmare, he experienced it with him and woke up still shuddering from the technicolor pain and violence. When Pickles stayed up all night mixing booze, pot, and hallucinogens, Charles saw the vivid trails the drummer’s fingers scratched in the air and other colorful, improbable things, the glossy veneer that was plastered over a seething discontent. When Murderface snuck out of bed for a midnight binge in his closet, Charles got every tortured minute of self-loathing and self-induced vomiting, loud and clear. When Skwisgaar dismissed his bedmates for the night and slept alone — as rarely as that happened — Charles felt swamped by the blank despair and loneliness that rolled through the Swede in terrible waves. 

But more often than not, it was Nathan he dreamed of. Whenever the frontman had another of the whale dreams. Whenever he was particularly angry or upset. (And there was a difference, Charles was finally learning. They often looked the same from the outside, but ‘upset’ usually applied whenever Nathan knew he wasn’t communicating well but couldn’t think of the right words, or thought no one was paying attention to what he was saying, or had any sort of emotion that was dangerously close to caring about shit.) Whenever Nathan had sex, which, while not as often as Skwisgaar, happened a  _ lot _ , and Charles couldn’t decide if it was a blessing or torture. It was absurd of the universe to both grant him some sense of release again, even if it was only in dreams, and force him to experience the man that had dominated his fantasies for over a decade from the inside out. Make him feel close enough to touch, but not really. Never really. 

Of course, whenever he didn’t dream of the boys, he dreamt of dying. Not premonition dreams — they lacked the hyper-real edge of those — but merely a million shards of remembering the attack on Mordhaus, and a million ways he might end up dying again. 

So it was hard for him to pick a least favorite, really. And every morning, immediately upon waking, a crashing pain made itself known from within his skull, as if his brain was being squeezed in a vice.

The headaches had tapered off slightly while visiting the Church, but Charles had a sinking suspicion that now they were worse than they’d been before the trip. He still went through his routine of morning stretches, because the longer he practiced, the easier it became to sink into an almost feuge state where the headaches didn’t bother him so much, at least for a while. Plus, getting the blood flowing right after taking his various medications seemed to help them kick in faster. 

_ One of us must die.  _

Charles had already died once. He was pretty much resigned to doing it again before all of this was over. 

~

Ever since the first underwater recording session, Charles had been preparing for another one. After all, it had worked. And that was just the boys working on their own, in a very confined space, with only that one brief first visit from Knubbler once they already had everything more or less done. Much like the transition from the band sharing a crappy apartment to moving into Mordhaus, Charles had spent years laying the groundwork for a palatial submarine much bigger than the last one they’d used, one worthy of the world’s greatest death metal band. 

While Murderface’s face healed from reversing the botched plastic surgery and Toki’s lips still kind of made him sound like he was talking through a funnel, Abigail stopped by his office and asked how long before the sub was livable. 

“It seems like the kind of environment they’d enjoy, and it would cut down on distractions,” she explained with a shrug. “At this point we’re so behind schedule that it may be the only way to get this album done by the label’s deadline.”

Charles nodded. “It’s liveable now,” he replied, “but it’s in drydock near the Pacific. I think the Atlantic would be more prudent... Do you remember those reports about giant seahorses off the coast of Japan several years ago?”

Abigail frowned. “I remember the pictures of one laid out on an aircraft carrier before some bigwig General came on tv and started telling everyone it was just an elaborate hoax.”

“It wasn’t,” Charles replied simply. “And that’s why  _ this _ submarine doesn’t run on nuclear power.”

"Okay," the record producer said slowly in obvious skepticism. He knew better to take it personally, though. She hadn't been in Finland during the troll debacle, or had a hand in the messy, messy cleanup after that Satanic Mass the boys had attended. 

After that, there wasn’t much left to discuss except for the timeline, but Charles assured her that he could send that later in an email and concluded the meeting. For Dethklok, anything could be made to happen quickly. Move a gigantic submersible fortress from one coast to the other in a few weeks? No problem. Even if the money wasn’t there, he had spent years cultivating a delicately interconnected spider web of favors — all the had to do was pull a single thread. He sent a request down to the archives department and ten minutes later one of his assistants hurried in with blueprints of the submarine plans and helped spread them out across his desk before hurrying back out. 

Charles scanned over the design and noticed something that he hadn’t expected, but nevertheless didn’t strike him as at all surprising: the band member’s quarters had been placed two each on the port and starboard sides and one towards the bow. He traced the five points with a finger, drawing an invisible pentagram, then tapped his own office and quarters in the approximate center. Little things. The Church could only influence little things. Rubble crashing down a little bit to the left instead of injuring the band, the trajectory of a Dethphone thrown in frustration landing in a lake troll’s throat at just the right angle, quietly making adjustments to blueprints for their own arcane reasons... that sort of thing. 

The pentagram reminded him of the recent visit to the Church. Something had changed the night Nathan had hit him, and something had changed again when he’d stood in the middle of the Church’s central, most holy space. Now they’d arranged for him to live in a similarly central location, and he didn’t know what it  _ meant _ . 

With a huff, Charles rolled the blueprints up again, leaning them against the side of his desk. The notes on completion were all there, so the sub was indeed ready for action. Now it was time to start making calls. 

Technically, the next thing he should do was call a band meeting to notify the guys about these developments. But...

… Recording the entire album underwater would undoubtedly be a lengthy undertaking, and would require security measures to prevent another Trindle incident. The last thing he wanted was to have to look Nathan in the eyes when telling him that there would be no women allowed on the Dethsub. (Except for Abigail, who, contractually, did not count.) All of the boys would be upset, but it was Nathan that his thoughts kept returning to. He hadn’t even spoken privately with the man since the night of the… incident that Charles still didn’t know what to make of. Even so, there was something strange building inside of him, something it took him the rest of the day to finally recognize. 

Even after being the Dead Man for years now, he still worried that the frontman would stare back and somehow know about the dreams, the intense selfish pleasure he took from them as the one perk of constant headaches and dying by degrees. 

But it was more than that. He actually  _ felt _ nervous. His stomach seemed to be slowly tying itself in knots, and he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. 

He took his medication and didn’t schedule a meeting. Once a skeleton crew for the submarine’s relocation had been arranged and a date for Dethklok’s officials departure settled, he notified Abigail and left it to her to inform the band. Disclosing security details to the boys could wait — it would give them less time to act out in protest before boarding. 

~

Before boarding the submarine, Charles went against his better judgement and made another appointment with his doctor. It was like having a sore tooth that he could resist probing with his tongue, or a traffic accident he couldn’t keep from rubbernecking. As he lay still during the head CT, the buzzing, clicking, and whirring of the machine reminded him of a clock counting down. 

The results were worse than before. 

He sat stoically through the doctor’s explanation, which contained phrases like “widespread neurological deterioration,” and concluded the appointment by asking for a prescription to help him sleep at night and another to help him concentrate during the day. The doctor shook his head, but wrote the scripts anyway. 

~

“Wait wait wait,” Nathan protested. “We can’t have any fucking chicks down there?”

Beyond the red-tinted porthole they were standing next to, a farewell crowd of scantily clad fans — mostly women, but there were always a few who were either difficult to determine, or definitely, definitely male and unfortunately likely to be beaten up by their fellow metal fans later. 

A fate that, depending on how the band decided to react to his security announcement, Charles might soon have something in common with. A few stray threads of concern tickled along his nerves, but he realized that a physical threat from his boys wouldn’t, at this point, affect him very much. It bothered him more to think that they, and particularly Nathan, would be dissatisfied and resentful. 

“No sir,” he replied, not quite meeting the frontman’s glare. Wearily, he braced himself mentally for the tantrum. This was the first time he’d chatted with the band in some time, which in hindsight was probably not the best way to go. They always acted out more when they felt they were being ignored. Still, he had his excuses ready if needed. First he could start with,  _ I would have palled around with you more, but Murderface and Toki were still recovering from poor plastic surgery choices and I didn’t want to look like I was playing favorites _ , and then pull out something like,  _ So, this is a pretty awesome submarine, even better than the last one, right? Did you see the spikes on the front? _

But all Nathan said was, “Huh. That fucking sucks.” There was still a scowl on his face, though Charles noted that the only expression to rival it was Pickles. The other three guys were standing in the middle, trying to look fairly neutral. Apparently that was how the peace was being kept these days. 

“Don’t worry,” Murderface began placatingly, and then to the horror of all listening began waxing eloquent about masturbation. He seemed to be focusing most of it at Skwisgaar for some reason, perhaps thinking that the blond guitarist would be his most likely ally in the passive aggressive campaign against enforced celibacy. 

Abigail’s strolling on board just a moment later could have been better timed, though. Charles cursed himself inwardly for not having thought of that advance either. If he’d just told her to board earlier, or later, the implication wouldn’t have been so obvious — no women, except for their producer. As much as he trusted her to be professional, there was no way to trust Dethklok to not be easily distracted. 

_ I’m slipping _ , he thought grimly as he followed everyone on board. There might be less time left than he’d thought. 

Like his office on the band’s tour bus, Charles’ Dethsub office was small. It did, however, have several large portholes behind his desk, which was bolted securely to the floor, and a chandelier that was a miniature of the ones in his Mordhaus rooms. There was even a small couch against one wall, tucked under an alcove of built-in book cabinets with transparent doors. Most of the volumes were language books from Mordhaus’ massive and underused library; Ishnifus had recently sent him instructions to begin studying Old Persian, Aramaic, and Sumerian. 

Hidden inside the cover of one of them were a few yellowing scraps of old parchment sent by special monk courier, probably old copies of even more ancient scrolls but still, in lettering that Charles couldn’t yet identify... The carrot on a stick to tempt the dying mule onwards, he couldn’t help thinking. It was working though, regardless of his cynicism. Whatever was on those scraps was information he desperately wanted, needed, to translate to aid in anticipating what was to come. Technically he could have assigned Jomfru to run them through some sort of translator, but there was a limit to how much he trusted his enemies, even captive ones. Charles had no intention of showing the man anything that he couldn’t verify the results of himself, which meant learning the language. Or in this case, learning enough languages to first be able to figure out what language the scraps were even written in. 

Charles sat at his desk and automatically reached for a bottled water and his pills, knowing in that undeniable, deep-in-his-bones-and-migraine way that all five of the band members were in their private quarters already beating off. He pushed that awareness aside — it was surprisingly easy, probably thanks to the damn Church and their damn pentagrams — and pressed the intercom button on the control panel built into the desk. 

“Are we underway?”

“Yes, my lord,” came the instant reply. “The RF booster buoys are being deployed within acceptable parameters of the recommended coordinates, and we should arrive at Andromeda’s Crevice as scheduled.”

Flipping through some of the papers on his desk, Charles checked over the schedule again. “Good. Send some teams ahead in reconnaissance pods to scout for ideal audio isolation locations, just in case.”  After all, they’d needed to isolate Toki the last time. “And make a note for a ship-wide announcement for the band’s safety briefing tomorrow morning. It’s supposed to be at eleven am, so start the announcements at ten and say the meeting starts at ten thirty."

“Consider it done, my lord.”

“Good. Over and out.”

He clicked the intercom off and sagged back into his chair. There was no point in going to bed early, despite how weary he felt.  He knew what his dreams would be, and if he waited until all five of the guys had drunk themselves to sleep for the night he might actually be able to get some restful shuteye. 

Study time, then. 

Eight hours later, Charles woke and unstuck his cheek from a book with a quiet groan. He checked his watch and saw that his internal clock had woken him at the usual time for his morning routine. Perhaps it was because of the location of his office, or perhaps he had just been that tired, but he couldn’t remember if he’d dreamt. Before standing, he glanced down at the pages he’d been using as a pillow and realized that he actually remembered most of it. How could that possibly be normal for someone with a brain that, according to medical science, was slowly turning to mush?

Best not to pull too hard on that thread. 

It was just a brief jog to the Dethsub’s botanical garden dome for his morning stretches. He encountered only a handful of Klokateers along the way. The artificially lit dome was mainly used for growing produce, which meant that it was of very little interest to the band save for a small golf course in the center, and anyway it was still early yet. He didn’t hear the announcements for the safety briefing start until he was in the shower. That gave him enough time to get to the conference room early, arrange the notes he had brought with him and probably would not get a chance to finish going over if experience was any indication, and think.

His morning routine given him some time to reflect on things, and he decided that the pentagram arrangement of quarters, like the amphitheater in the Church, had a kind of focusing effect. Like a magnifying glass or a meditation crystal. Whatever power the curse of being the Dead Man had given him, inside that shape he had more control over it, more awareness and understanding of it. Of course, the shape itself probably wasn’t enough. If he were to draw one on the floor and hop into the middle of it, most likely all that would happen was that he would end up feeling silly. But the Church had those symbols carved into the stone floor at each point of the pentagram, and here… Well, in the Dethsub the five members of Dethklok were those points. He didn’t know if they were stand-ins for the symbols on the floor or if it was the other way around.

At around twenty minutes to eleven, the boys started to trickle in. Toki came first, which wasn’t a surprise. He tended to rise the earliest, and back at Mordhaus it wasn’t uncommon for Charles to receive early-morning calls from the rhythm guitarist because he'd accidentally glued airplane parts to his hair or face again. Today, he’d merely seemed to have decided to forgo wearing shoes. Next came Skwisgaar, who apparently was so thrown, either by the lack of women on board or being awake so early, that he had actually forgotten to bring his guitar. Then Murderface. He took the seat next to Charles, looking no more disgruntled or sex-starved than usual.  Nathan and Pickles entered at roughly the same time but through different corridors. They paused as they saw each other, disagreeable moods clear in the scowls of both men, and then suddenly as if by unspoken challenge they were both racing for the same chair. 

As ridiculous as Charles found the childishness of that, he knew it was partly because no one wanted to sit next to Toki, who looked like he might be in one of those weird blank moods of his where he might suddenly decide to start punching people for no reason, and no one wanted to sit next to Murderface, for the usual reasons. That left the entire remainder of a table designed to seat fifteen people, but no one had yet laid claim to the seat on Charles’ left. 

Nathan got there first, having come in through the slightly closer corridor, and dropped into it without a word. Pickles, still scowling, chose to sit off by himself several chairs away. 

At least Nathan has the good grace not to openly gloat, Charles thought, but he was distracted by the frontman’s proximity. It was like the feeling of being just about to touch something that was primed with static to shock the first person who unwittingly came into contact with it. He tried to ignore the hyper-awareness, reminding himself that it was just lingering awkwardness from… things, and from avoiding each other for as long as they had. 

“How’s everyone settling in?” Charles asked. “Sleep alright?”

There was grumpy silence around the table. 

“Okay,” he continued with a shrug. "Looks like everyone's decompressing nicely. A couple safety precautions before we hit the ocean floor. First of all, I wanted to say—“

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Nathan interrupted, and Charles wondered if interrupting him had become the new form of ignoring him, now that they were all trapped together in, essentially, a big metal tube. "Hey, guys. Sorry if I seem out of it. Last night, I, uh, had that fucked up nightmare I keep on having — ooh."

"Is it the dream were you fuck a hornet's nest and then put your cock into a vat of boiling acid?” Pickles asked, friendly enough yet seeming, to Charles, to relish the graphic description a little more than was strictly necessary. 

"Even worse,” Nathan exclaimed earnestly. "It's that horrible dream. The only way for me to get girls is for me to, ugh...  _ go down on them _ ."

Despite the rift between the two, Pickles’ eyes widened in shocked sympathy and he blurted out, "Oh, mama!” at the same time as Murderface said, “Oh my god!” and Skwisgaar let out a heartfelt, "Ew."

Charles resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He didn’t know about the others, but he’d suppressed enough footage of Skwisgaar’s more public exploits to know bullshit when he smelled it. 

"Oh, that's gross!” Toki cried a beat behind everyone else, stirred out of his quiet blankness by the lewd subject matter. Then he added, "Now what is it going down on a girl means again?” Skwisgaar had to lean over and explain to him in a surprisingly discrete and quiet voice. By the time he finished, the younger guitarist’s eyes had grown even wider. "Holy shit, that shit's gross!”

"I know, I know,” Nathan agreed. "I'm fucking shaking right now even thinking about it."

"Well, we doesn't have to do that anymores,” Skwisgaar declared, "and I'll tell you whys. We ams a famous rocks-'n'-roll bands. They goes down on  _ us _ ! But if we will haves to go down on them—"

“It would have to be under the utmost dire circumstances!” Pickles cut in. 

Nathan nodded. "Right. Like if they were gonna kill my fucking parents. Then I'd  _ have _ to do it. Oh, but still, totally gross!” His head whipped around with surprising speed and he demanded, "Right, Charles?”

The question caught Charles off guard, because he wasn’t usually included in the band’s rambling, snowballing, weird logic discussions. “Uh,” he faltered, even though he was pretty sure that Nathan  _ wanted _ him to simply agree. But, personally, he had never really cared enough about women to give it much thought. “N... No comment.”

His noncommittal answer earned him a narrowed, green-eyed glare. And because he’d become unsettlingly more familiar with the man lately, thanks to those dreams, Charles thought he could actually decipher what the look meant: Nathan had suspected something about him, and now considered those suspicions more or less confirmed. The uncomfortable, prickling feeling of sitting too close returned, and Charles realized that he actually had goosebumps. What the hell?

"Well, it's fucking true,” Nathan spat, as though his manager has just outright contradicted him instead of remaining neutral. "We don't have to do  _ that _ anymore!"

"You don't have to do what anymore?” Abigail asked, strolling in just in time to not hear anything she might be offended by. Probably. 

“Nothing,” Nathan said quickly. 

If the producer had heard any of the earlier conversation, Charles was glad she had a thick enough skin to just ignore their bullshit in favor of getting the meeting back on track. 

"Uh, anyway, guys,” he said loudly, "we've got three months to craft the ultimate metal record. If, for some reason, we fail to hit that deadline, I fear that Cornickelson will sink us where we stand, so, uh... have at it, mateys.” He risked a glance back over at Nathan again, who still looked like he was brooding intensely over something. The frontman wouldn’t quite make eye contact with him, though. 

“Ugh,” Murderface groaned. "'Have at it, mateysch.' Another lame schign-off from Charlesch. Anywaysch, who wantsch to go jack off with me?”

~

**_Charles was in hell._ **

**_Fluorescent, polyester uniform hell._ **

**_The pervasive smell of hamburger grease was under his nails, in his hair, baked into his skin by the proximity of the hot griddle. As soon as he finished slowly dropping the next round of patties one by one on the shining and spitting surface, he reached without enthusiasm for his spatula and started flipping. There was no way to increase the efficiency of this process; the griddle could only fit so many patties at a time and he had to move slowly to allow the cooking time that each side required._ **

**_He heard the bell above the front door jingle. From his station he couldn’t see much of what went on at the front counter, but he cringed inwardly every time the first influx of the dinner rush began._ **

**_"Hey, fuck-face, give me four number fives!"_ **

**_Sounded like some snot-nosed asshole. He heard Nathan's reply from up front, clearly startled by the sudden intrusion and rapid fire demand.. “Um… Uh… Uh, so you want a five?"_ **

**_"No, retard! I want four fives!” Charles could just imagine the kind of kid that went with that voice. Some pimple faced teenager who felt inclined to get in the lowly fast food worker’s face, even though Nathan probably had at least a foot on him. “Listen, Tonto,” the jerk continued, “you give me four fives, and you do it now!”_ **

**_Charles’ eyes narrowed and he looked up from his flipping, craning his neck to try and see what was happening at the counter. Polyester hell or not, there were some things that he really hated hearing — assholes calling Nathan ‘Tonto’ was one of them. Especially when the poor guy was already flustered, because it only exacerbated the problem._ **

**_“You, you have... You wanted, uh... You wanted…?”_ **

**_"Hey, wait a minute,” the kid’s grating voice interrupted. Charles couldn’t quite see him past Nathan’s shoulder, clad in the hideous brown and orange Dimmu Burger uniform. “Aren't you Nathan Explosion?"_ **

**_That made Charles wince. He himself never got recognized, having never really stepped out from behind the scenes while Dethklok had still been together. It was different for the former frontman._ **

**_“Uh...” Nathan hesitated, torn between lying to get out of the inevitability embarrassing conversation about his past and honesty. As usual when he was flustered, the truth came easier than making up a lie. "Yeah, I guess I am."_ **

**_"Didn't you have anything to fall back on after your band was killed by black birds?” the kid demanded in a teasing tone._ **

**_The door to the office creaked open and then swung shut behind their manager, who was widely regarded as a colossal dick. He always watched the security cameras, to keep an eye on his employees just in case any of them slacked off — then he would creep out to shower them with scorn and shame. Charles, knowing that Nathan was yet again going to be his favorite punching bag, gestured urgently with his spatula for his nearest coworker to come take over his station._ **

**_“Huh,” Nathan said, still mulling helplessly over the question and oblivious to the second jerk bearing down on him. “No. I never graduated from high school, so…”_ **

**_"He's a complete idiot,” the manager interjected nastily. “Can hardly function. He's_ ** **so stupid** **_."_ **

**_“Yeah, I am stupid…_ ** **I am** **_?” Nathan sounded both blindsided and absolutely horrified._ **

**Get over here** **_, Charles mouthed angrily at the reluctant burger wrapper. Finally she relented and took the spatula gingerly, taking his place at the griddle but trying to stand far enough back as to not get spattered with the grease. As if the whole building and all their uniforms weren’t permeated with the stuff._ **

**_"Oh, well. That's just too bad,” the kid said snidely. Charles rounded the corner just in time to see the red squirt bottles raised to firing position. “Look out!”_ **

**_Nathan was too slow to block the attack, and took a face full of the gloppy condiment as a result. “Ketchup! Ahh!”_ **

**_"Oh, no! Now you gotta go wash your face,” the kid jeered._ **

**_“Oh. Face. Yeah, right...”_ **

**_Charles already had a towel ready and pushed it into Nathan’s hands, blocking his frenzied reaching for any kind of liquid to splash on his face to wash the ketchup off. If he hadn’t been there, the big man would have ended up with his hands in the frier and hot oil splashed into his eyes, which sounded too stupid to be possible but he knew flustered Nathan all too well._ **

**_Nathan took the towel gratefully and scrubbed it against his face. “Thanks, man,” he mumbled, not having to see his rescuer to know who it was. These days, there was only one person who still always had his back._ **

**_“No problem,” Charles replied smoothly, patting him on the shoulder and giving it one quick, reassuring squeeze. His gaze moved to the manager, who was glaring at him for interrupting what was honestly the only form of entertainment in this hellhole. “Hey, I was going to ask if I could take my break now, but I can take the register for a bit if you want.” He glanced at the kid, who looked almost as put out. “Four number fives, right?”_ **

**_The manager grunted a vague acknowledgement in Charles’ general direction and slunk back towards the office. No one at Dimmu Burger messed with Charles Offdensen, who could talk rings around anyone else there any day of the week and had more degrees than most of his coworkers seemed to have IQ points. When he’d applied for the job, he had not only walked into the place like_ ** **he** **_owned it and was conducting the interview; he’d gotten Nathan a job as well, terrible employment history unseen, and a written addendum to their contracts stating that they would always work the same shifts, without exception._ **

**_Nathan gratefully retreated back out of the public eye to take over flipping burgers, and Charles took over up front just in time for the dinner rush to start. He liked being on register. The only thing he needed it for was to open and print receipts, as he had memorized all the menu items and prices long ago and could do all the math in his head to keep from getting bored. On his own, he could move people through the line as efficiently as three regular employees combined._ **

**_So what was he doing there in fluorescent, polyester uniform hell? The answer was a few feet behind him, past the metal shelves of over-salted fries and pre-made Dimmu meals under heat lamps, flipping burgers and idly humming the tune of some unwritten song…_ **

Charles woke, puzzled at first by the small bunk of his Dethsub quarters and the lack of... of... something that had been prevalent in his dream, he couldn’t remember. He sat up and shook his head, clearing away the haze of sleep. A wet trickle on his upper lip told him that his nose was bleeding again, but upon investigation it at least proved not to be a bad one. 

It had been nearly a month since they had reached Andromeda’s Crevice and begun recording. Ever since boarding the sub, he had slept better than he had for in a long time. The headaches seemed less intense. He could go longer stretches between taking his medication, which made concentrating on both his responsibilities as captain and his language studies easier. Abigail’s reports showed that the album was coming along at an acceptable pace, although lately the progress had slowed... He knew why, his wrists ached in sympathy pains often enough, but there were ways to deal with that. Just the other day he had sent a private message to Roy Cornickleson, and he expected that would clear the problem up any time now. 

Charles, in a much more pleasant mood than he would have expected had he stopped to really think about it, got up and began his day with his usual jog to the botanic garden. That had become as much routine as the stretches, as routine as studying every night until he was too tired to keep his eyes open. It was almost like being back in college again — except now he had seen the other side of death and the world may or may not be about to end in fiery torment depending on, among other things, what he did.

To his surprise, someone was already in the garden when he arrived. Charles heard a  _ thwack _ of a club hitting a golf ball, then instinctively ducked to avoid a hard drive gone wrong as it winged off a tree and flew straight for his head. 

“Uh, fore,” Nathan called in afterthought, spotting him as he straightened up. “I, uh... didn’t think anyone would be here this early.”

“Neither did I,” Charles replied honestly. He didn’t mind nearly being hit, but being seen wearing the white undershirt and dark gray sweatpants he did his exercises in wasn’t terribly professional. 

They stared at each other for a moment. 

Eventually, Nathan grunted under his breath and leaned down to set a new ball on the tee. “Fine, get over here behind me if you’re staying. I’m still gonna golf.”

Charles sighed and rolled his shoulders as he walked over. He stood behind the frontman and watched his powerful, yet slightly stiff swing as he sent the second ball whizzing towards the other side of the biosphere, losing it in the foliage of distant produce. 

“What brings you here so early?” Charles asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Hrmph,” Nathan grunted. He turned slightly to frown at Charles. “We’re not allowed to jack off anymore. Probably thanks to you, somehow.”

“I read the doctor’s report, Nathan. You all have such advanced carpal tunnel that I would be surprised if you even could, ah, still try to do that and get any enjoyment out of it.” Actually, he was mildly surprised that the man could even hold a golf club that well, but  it had been a few days. Maybe resting his wrists that long had helped. "It had nothing to do with me.” 

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say, as so much of what he said these days did. The larger man hit the next ball even harder. “Whatever. I’m just... here blowing of steam.”

“Okay,” Charles replied simply. It seemed as though every time they talked anymore— No, not quite. Every time they’d talked  _ alone, _ Nathan was upset with him about something, and every time the reasons were different. Unless they somehow all had a common thread, but he had no idea what that might be. Nothing he could think of would stretch to explain that kiss in his rooms at Mordhaus. 

For a moment, his lips tingled slightly as if the skin itself remembered. 

The premonition hit suddenly, without warning, but unfortunately not without sensation. Behind Nathan, Charles convulsed, the wind knocked out of him from behind as a thin hot line of pain through him. Nothing... nothing fatal, he noted as he managed to keep his feet. In his mind, someone was holding him upright in an uncomfortably tight grip, his arms wrenched back. Everything was split between present and future, like putting a kaleidoscope to one eye but keeping the other open at the same time. He felt such pure, despairing fear that he couldn’t focus on anything else, process any other detail that might have told him who had been attacked, by whom, where, or when. The pain in his side twisted and his hands were held behind his back, but there was so much blood, it was everywhere, seeping out and saturating his suit, and  _ oh fuck, oh fuck, help me, oh fuck _ .

And then reality snapped back, jarring and too-bright. Charles squinted against the artificial sunlight, brought his hands up to his temples to massage in slow, meditative circles, and tried very hard to translate the experience into cold hard facts. Someone was going to get hurt, but what was it Ishnifus had said? _Sometimes when it is of the_ _utmost_ _consequence, the details are lacking_.

In front of him, Nathan placed another ball on the tee and swung the club, sending it whistling off with a barely controlled violence that made Charles uneasy. 

“Well, I should probably get going,” he announced after a minute or two had passed. Whatever had moved Nathan to come here and use golf as an outlet this early in the morning, he had no interest in doing his stretches while at any moment he could be concussed by a golf ball, and even less after a shock of the vision he’d just had. There was still a phantom twinge in his side. He just wanted to sit at his desk and think, try to milk some information from the jumble in his head while it was still fresh. “Sorry to hear about the carpal tunnel,” he added distractedly as he turned to go. “Good luck, ah, dealing with that.” 

After about eight steps, he heard Nathan drop the golf club on the green and stomp after him. “Hey, uh, wait up. I wanted to ask you something.”

_ Of course you do _ , Charles thought. Resigned, he didn’t object as the big man caught up with him. 

Despite its overall massive size and a few cavernous observation towers, space in the Dethsub was at a premium. With all the luxury amenities that had been crammed into it, the builders had kept the corridors narrow enough that two people could pass in opposite directions if they needed to but not enough for anyone to walk alongside Nathan Explosion, who tended to gravitate to the center of any walkway regardless. Charles assumed that was why Nathan didn’t ask his question, settling for the moment to follow along behind with no regard for personal space. He could feel the heat of the other man at his back all the way to his office, and smelled a hint of… Was that cologne?

Maybe the frontman had decided, as he had pointed out several times since his manager’s return from the dead, that Charles was in charge and could pave the way to anything Nathan wanted, the same way he could release funds for the band members to make frivolously expensive purchases. He took his seat behind his desk and braced himself for a petition to amend Abigail’s contract. 

“What can I help you with, Nathan?” As he said it, he felt distinctly aware that he was still in his morning workout clothes rather than a suit. That might make it a little more difficult to deliver the resounding  _ no _ he had queued up to the expected request, but he had faced steeper odds before. 

Nathan didn’t reply right away. He drifted around the small office, squinting at the covers of books as if he actually found them really interesting. “So, uh,” he began in a tone that he probably thought was nonchalant, but came across more like a bad, slightly higher imitation of his own voice. “We never see you with anybody.”

Charles blinked. That was so far outside of what he had expected that he just didn’t know what to make of it. “What?”

“It’s been, you know...  _ difficult _ these past few days,” Nathan continued, intent on some train of thought that he was taking his sweet time explaining. "Not being able to jack off because of the dildolickers at the label that say it’s a waste of money.” Green eyes peered at Charles through the fall of hair. “But you didn’t have fucked up wrists like we do. So it’s been, uhhh. Even longer. For you. But you seem fine, and that must be ‘cause you’re already used to it. Right?”

“Oh,” Charles said, realizing what the other man was talking about. If he hadn’t been the Dead Man, he might have laughed. 

There was a long pause.

“How do you deal with it?” Nathan finally blurted out, turning to stare straight at Charles through the hair falling into his face. 

A number of responses sprang to Charles’ mind — strategies that, in the old days, he’d taken advantage of when he’d needed to. 

“Well, there’s always stepping into a cold shower,” he replied, folding his hands on top of his desk. “Or redirecting your energies to other things. Golf, for example. Or, ah, fencing.”

Nathan gave a puzzled frown. “What do fences have to do with anything?”

“Nothing… Physical exercise, is what I meant. Working out or running laps in the gym, that sort of thing.” Charles couldn’t believe he was giving Nathan advice on how to avoid thinking about sex, but it was a funny world full of a lot of things he didn’t believe in that happened anyway. What he wasn’t going to mention was that, in the end, it was really all just a matter of willpower — that was clearly a non-starter. None of the band members had much willpower, as their group diagnosis had made abundantly clear. 

There was another pause while Nathan processed this. After a moment it looked like he was working up to some kind of important thought, so Charles left him the time he needed for it to fully form. 

“But why do any of that,” Nathan said slowly, still looking straight at him, “when you could just jerk me off instead?”

The question hit like an unexpected blow and Charles’ stomach clenched. If not for the shock of what had just been said, he would have been shocked by actually having that much of a physical reaction to something. 

“You did that one time,” Nathan pressed. “Remember?”

Charles remembered. He remembered the crappy, pus-white tiled box with a couple urinals and two stalls with locks that didn’t work, and behind one of those stall doors… 

“ _ Man _ that was a fucking awesome show.” A brief and toothy grin flashed through the curtain of hair. “And you caught me jacking off, remember?”

His first, flustered instinct had been to leave, but they were on a tight schedule and there wasn’t time to wait. So he’d swallowed hard and just given in to temptation, telling himself it was for the good of the band. Then he’d pushed the stall door open again and lent a hand. Nathan’s eyes had snapped open, but then rolled back in his head pretty much immediately as Charles had done something strategic with his thumb. It had been all Charles could do then to keep from crossing even more lines, every nerve ending screaming to kiss him or touch himself or kneel before his god... 

Now, though, his head ached and he wished he could sink into the floor and disappear rather than deal with this. 

“Nathan,” Charles said carefully. “I did, ah, what I did then so we could still make our scheduled flight time. It was... faster.”

“I’m not stupid, I notice shit,” Nathan said stubbornly. He held up one hand and started counting off on his fingers. One. “You never want to hear about tits.” Two. “You have  _ nothing _ to say about going down on chicks.” Three. “And you popped a boner while you were getting me off that time. Which you were really good at. So, uh, you know… we’d both get something out of it.”

_ Except I wouldn’t, _ Charles thought, closing his eyes. He was almost proud of Nathan’s deductive reasoning, but it had come too late. Before the attack on Mordhaus he knew that, professionalism be damned, he would have jumped at this offer, with its built-in excuse for the breach in his ethics. Even now he wanted to, just for a chance to be close, to be a living breathing part of someone else’s personal life for just a little while before he died again. And it was  _ Nathan _ . But then he would get attached, and it wouldn’t be that kind of relationship so he would never say anything, even if the kiss that one time suggested there actually might be something more to it somehow... Then he would die, and Nathan either wouldn’t care, which was painful to think about, or maybe he would be devastated, which might even be worse. So whatever Charles did, whatever he wanted, he wouldn’t get it.

The pressure in his head felt suddenly worse. 

This was the price to being the Dead Man, to being Dethklok’s prophesied guide and protector. All of his existence had boiled down to being a gear in the wheel of the Klok. Nathan was an attractive man, no doubt about that, and with his work schedule it had been so long since he’d had any real form of companionship, but there was no dry spell in the world that could excuse going through with this. 

“No.” Charles stood, putting both hands flat on the desk for emphasis and looking the other man pointedly in the eyes. “Nathan, I appreciate the thought. It’s very flattering. And I understand that you’re having a hard time down here, but I can't. I really can’t.” He stared into those brooding green eyes, willing him to get the message and back off. “Everything I do is for the good of this band, you know that. I can’t afford to lose focus.”

For a moment, Nathan actually seemed to listen. Charles felt a trickle of sad, desperate hope at that, but it was dashed when the frontman’s brow creased into an obstinate frown and he stomped closer, moving around the desk and pushing him against the nearest porthole. The larger man’s bulk didn’t take up all the space, exactly, but getting around him wouldn’t have been easy and, at any rate, Charles sensed it would be useless to try. And yes, he had definitely smelled cologne earlier — the expensive kind, the kind Dethklok usually overlooked in favor of just smelling like sweat, booze, and lack of a recent shower. 

Hands landed more firmly on his shoulders now, holding him in place against the cold porthole, and Nathan growled, “You’re good at all that… multitasking shit. Do both.” 

Then Nathan was kissing him again, and it was nothing like the dry, nervous peck on the lips from last time. It was rough and raw and crushing and urgent from the pressure of pent-up sexual energy and  _ My god _ , Charles thought distantly as his mouth yielded passively to the attack,  _ he’s only been unable to masturbate for a couple of _ days _.  _

Nathan kissed him like a man secure in the knowledge of his own importance — not just in the world, but to Charles. He kissed like a man confident in his expectation of not being turned down. And while Charles made no move to return the kiss, he stayed still in awe of that confidence because it was one he had never personally experienced. It was bittersweet because, really, he wished he could be so enraptured by other aspects of what was happening — for example, the fact that Nathan was very good at kissing. He tasted like Doritos and some kind of liquor, something vaguely coconutty maybe. 

The lack of Charles kissing him back didn’t dissuade Nathan, presumably because he wasn’t being pushed off. As Charles felt himself crowded back against the wall, porthole rivets digging uncomfortably into his back, and half heartedly raised his hands to do... something. One brushed against some of Nathan’s hair and he remembered getting drunk enough to play with it, years ago, when it had moved through his fingers like water in a way that had been utterly fascinating at the time. He felt the bulge in Nathan’s jeans rubbing against his hip, one broad thigh bumping against his own crotch... The frontman grunted into his mouth and pulled away frowning. Before Charles realized what was happening, one of Nathan’s hands had let go of his shoulder and slid down to cup him through his sweatpants. 

Then Nathan paused. “How come...” he began, sounding gruffly puzzled. 

Although Charles no more had it in him to go red in the face than he did to produce the reaction that Nathan had obviously been expecting, it turned out there was a space in his mind capable of being cleared especially for the purpose of burning with shame. He met Nathan’s eyes, and it was as if the abyss that he had felt tugging at the edges of his soul ever since coming back — though he hadn’t noticed it as much recently — was glaring back. 

“Why aren’t you…” Nathan tried again, groping some more and starting to sound upset. It sounded almost exactly like angry, but Charles had learned the difference. “What the hell, you’re not into it even a  _ little _ ?"

“No,” Charles protested weakly, "Nathan, that’s not—"

Abruptly, there was a lot more space between them than here had been a moment ago. It was like his  dreams of the man: there one minute, real and warm and alive, and then as far away as the earth from the sun as soon as the dream broke. But at least in his dreams, Charles could  _ feel _ . Now there was no release, nothing  _ to _ release. He’d waited too long to react in the hopes that maybe he’d feel something, and hadn’t. 

“Hey, fuck you, Offdensen!” Nathan jabbed a thick finger at his chest, his eyes flashing with humiliation. After all he had, for lack of a better phrase, put himself out there. He wasn’t used to rejection. 

“You think you’re so smart, and fit, and, and  _ better _ than me… Well, you’re not!” Nathan snarled, jabbing again. “You’re just some sad hump in a stupid suit, and I’m the one who gets the people going. ME. Nathan Explosion! So… fuck you!"

Charles just stood there, looking deceptively composed on the outside — which of course was both the root of the problem and making it worse. He knew, in some corner of his mind that wasn’t completely saturated with disembodied humiliation, that Nathan had taken his impotence personally. It might have been possible to clear up that little misunderstanding, but the explanation died a million miles from his lips because there was so much he couldn’t say. 

Couldn’t say how much it would mean to him to be able to properly appreciate what had just happened, because he felt too deeply on that score to dwell on what he knew could never be. Couldn’t say why he was this way, not without betraying the confidences of Ishnifus and the Church. Couldn’t even bring himself to talk about how broken he was, when he had been working so hard he to focus on moving forward, on gathering all the information he could find in order to keep what he cared about safe. 

He  _ was _ just a sad hump in a stupid suit. Only, at the moment, he was still in his exercise clothes, which made him feel even more exposed. 

“Nathan,” Charles said in a soft voice, “please leave my office.”

“FINE,” the larger man thundered, his usual recourse in times of having trouble expressing himself. He stormed out, nearly tripping on the metal lip of the hatchway before slamming the hatch behind himself with a solid, echoing,  _ BOOM. _

Charles dropped back into his chair and put his head into his hands, elbows braced on his desk. He wondered dazedly if he would be fired as soon as they returned to the surface — for, of all things,  _ not _ fooling around with one of his employers. 

~

Nathan hadn’t told anyone. Charles hadn’t expected him to, being that the encounter had been both private and something the other band members would give both of them a hard time about. Or worse, try to request the same “favor.” But there was a definite tension whenever they saw each other now, and Nathan wasn’t running to claim the seat next to his at band meetings anymore. Making eye contact with the man was, for Charles, like staring into a barely banked furnace. 

At any moment there could be a gout of ire directed his way. It never was, but that might have been because Nathan was now directing all his excess energy into working out at the gym — not golfing, or anything else that might put him anywhere near his manager’s daily orbit. 

It was just a quiet humiliation that only the two of them knew about, but still. If nothing else it had reminded Charles that he wasn’t really alive anymore. He was just passing the time, getting nothing out of life while he served others — but when it came right down to it, he wondered in the dark of his room at night when the distraction of work had fallen away, what use was he, really?

For the most part, the band settled into a routine as they each found things to quietly obsess over in place of their dicks. Once their wrists healed enough for instruments to be competently played and microphones not so frequently dropped, recording sessions resumed. Abigail was quite pleased with their progress, although she came to Charles with a complaint less than a week in. 

“It’s Toki,” she said, after the perfunctory pleasantries such as  _ Hello _ and  _ Good afternoon _ had been exchanged. “He didn’t bring any shoes, so he’s found some roller skates to wear instead. God knows where, because they obviously aren’t his. He has no idea how to use them.”

“They could be his,” Charles offered, shuffling aside the reports from Knubbler and the rest of the reconnaissance team for perusal later. “The guys do buy a lot of things that they never use, forget they have, and then rediscover later on.” This was besides the point, but he blamed it on not sleeping well for the past… forever, it felt like. He wasn’t sure anymore. 

Abigail shrugged. “Well, he crashes into people and equipment when he wears them. Which is all the time, because when he takes them off in the studio the others always seem to end up stepping on his feet.”

“Hm. I could probably find a pair of boots that would fit him?”

“No, I’ve tried that. He’s got his heart set on learning how to skate. It’s keeping him occupied though, which… is probably a good thing in the long run.”

Charles sighed. “Just be glad it’s not something more destructive. I’ll have a word with him this afternoon.”

That was how a few hours later he ended up teaching Toki how to roller skate, and particularly how to use and how not to use the stoppers on the toes of the skates. Klokateers helped clear the furniture out of one of the lounge rooms for the lesson, though at Charles’ suggestion they left most of the couch cushions propped up along the walls as makeshift padding. 

It was like teaching a newborn giraffe how to walk, but despite his occasional bouts of laziness and binge drinking, Toki had a natural athleticism that merely required a teacher with a great deal of patience. By the end of the day the rhythm guitarist had learned how to turn a corner without rebounding off the bulkheads, and they had acquired a small audience. Murderface leaned against one wall between some of the cushions — “What? Thisch isch the  _ lounge _ . I can come in here and lounge if I fucking want!” — and only occasionally had to scramble out of the way when Toki careened by. Skwisgaar passed through with a Dethkone in hand, pausing to watch until he’d reduced the snack to nothing more than a damp, empty paper cup, and wandered out again without comment. 

“You wishes you coulds skate as wells as me, Skwisgaar,” Toki crowed after him, throwing his arms up in victory after successfully skating in a small, neat circle. Murderface grumbled something that had the words  _ show off _ in it and left the room. 

If nothing else, it cheered Charles up a little to see how happy it made Toki — as demonstrated by a giant bear hug on wheels that nearly knocked him over in its raw enthusiasm. 

“Thanks, misters butler guy!” Toki told him, giving an extra squeeze, before skating off with a half-heard shout back over his shoulder. Something about doing laundry. 

Charles turned and saw Nathan in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. Already the constant weight lifting had begun to have an effect on his physique: his signature black t-shirt fit looser around the belly but slightly tighter around his pecs, his arms were more defined, and the slight almost-chin lurking under his jawline had gone. Charles noted those details with a kind of clinical wistfulness, remembering how upset the man had been about his weight during the whole cosmetic surgery fiasco. No one could say he had man boobs now.

The frontman shot him a heated glare that by all rights should have left Charles’ skin cracked and peeling, then stomped off. 

That night, Pickles sat next to Charles at dinner and began peppering him with questions about what kind of suit cut would make him look taller. 

~

**_They were seated side by side on the edge of something, nowhere in particular. Charles could feel the body heat radiating off Nathan from shoulder to knee through his suit, even though they weren’t actually sitting that close to each other. He didn’t look at the other man._ **

**_“So the guy explained what upper decking was,” Nathan was saying, “and then Murderface wouldn’t leave until he’d taken a shit in a toilet tank. Did you know that, uh, your funeral was one of the most brutal things I’ve ever experienced?”_ **

**_Charles nodded sagely, as if he had heard all of this before. “We never should have let him have that bean burrito endorsement deal. It’s been like a Greek tragedy ever since. I didn’t know, thank you for telling me.”_ **

**_“Or like in Hamlet, where everyone is dead by the end,” Nathan agreed with a snort. “Another one of the most brutal things ever, that was, uh... you know. Kissing you. Sorry.”_ **

**_Thoughtfully, Charles turned to study the younger man in profile. It wasn’t often that he stopped to think about Nathan’s age any more, but every now and then that difference between them, the first of many that grew more insurmountable the further down they went, occurred to him.  “I’m surprised you enjoyed Shakespeare enough to reference any of his plays. Not at all. But if I may ask... Which time?”_ **

**_The frontman shrugged. It looked good — he looked good — all that working out lately had been, just, good. “Well yeah, anything where you exit pursued by a bear is pretty metal. Uh... both.”_ **

**_“I think that was a different play. You, ah, shouldn’t take my reactions… Well, lack of reactions personally, you know. I didn’t come back quite myself after I died.”_ **

**_“Whatever.” Nathan shrugged again. “Anyway, so I was heating up the leftovers from dinner last night... What are you saying?”_ **

**_Charles wrinkled his nose in distaste. “You microwaved booze? Honestly... Nathan, the way I’ve felt about you has affected my actions since the day we first met. You have no idea what it’s like to not be able to enjoy those encounters with you.”_ **

**_“Ha ha,” Nathan deadpanned, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t microwave fucking booze, don’t be a jackoff... I microwaved a sushi burrito. And anyway, you must be wound pretty tight. I’ve never seen you with anybody. Like... ever.”_ **

**_“Oh my god.” Charles’ hand went to his face to remove his glasses so he could rub the bridge of his nose in dismayed exasperation, but it turned out he wasn’t wearing them. How could he not have noticed that? “No more theme food parties. I’ll send out a memo. Also, ‘burritos’ is not a good theme, it just isn’t. And yes, I am tightly wound. I have been for years. Only now, I’m as tightly wound as... as a thing that_ ** **was** **_tightly wound, except then the spring was removed, but I still_ ** **feel** **_tightly wound even though there’s nothing to, ah... wind. Or unwind.”_ **

**_“Don’t hate on burritos,” Nathan retorted gruffly, but with good humor. He reached one loosely curled fist over and bumped Charles on the shoulder, bridging the gap between them. “I bet I could do something about that, Mack.”_ **

**_Charles opened his mouth to reply, but Nathan’s hand was suddenly gripping his shoulder. Then the frontman’s mouth crashed against his, demanding entrance, and Charles yielded to the delicious heat of it. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized he’d felt so cold._ **

**_Nathan kissed him with a focus and determination that Charles had only ever seen the other man apply to his music, which in itself was an electrifying thought. How many times had he watched the frontman onstage, loud and dominating and powerful, feeding off the audience’s fevered energy and channeling it right back into a song — how many times had he watched that and felt this same jolt. Power called to him, it always had, and in this man it was perfected. Charles, unable to help himself, groaned into the kiss, spurring Nathan to kiss him even harder._ **

**_Strong hands pushed him down on his back right there where he was sitting, yanking the sides of his suit jacket apart and untucking his dress shirt, rucking it up allow big, rough hands access to bare skin. Nathan loomed over him, the odd duality of their dream-conversation giving way to just this._ **

**_Charles_ ** **felt.** **_He gave himself over to it and pulled Nathan closer with a need that was more like desperation, kissing back hard and panting whenever he had a chance to breathe. When Nathan got his tie off, shirt pulled open, neck completely bared, and leaned down to bite possessively, claiming him, Charles groaned again and let his head loll back against stone. Nathan growled approvingly against his skin in response and it made him shudder from head to toe._ **

**_“Show me what to do,” Nathan demanded, his hands and then entire his body sliding south and tugging Charles’ pants undone and down. There was an edge to his voice, almost accusatory, as though he suspected his manager wouldn’t or couldn’t answer that challenge..._ **

Charles shot up in bed, sweating and wiping absently at the usual nosebleed. His heart was beating heavily in his chest and his first thought, after so much time since that had last happened, was that he was having some sort of cardiac episode. He pressed his hand to bare skin over the offending organ and tried to catch his breath — bare because it was too hot on the Dethsub to sleep in anything more than his underwear, and that only because his employers tended to have no respect for privacy, even here. 

Two months underwater. People had spent longer stretches in submarines, Charles knew. The average length of deployment in most naval services around the world was about three months, probably six at most. Still, with the band’s sex-deprived cabin fever catching, it felt like it had been a lot longer. The Dethsub was equipped with enough supplies and amenities to stay under for ten years, due in part to the garden at its center — but,  _ also _ thanks to the botanical gardens, the submarine had developed such a bad case of humidity that the Klokateers were beginning to visibly sweat during their shifts. And there were still another four weeks to go, minimum. 

The longer the band went without jacking off, the worse the dreams became, though he couldn’t remember what this one had been about. Skwisgaar had actually been desperate enough to go to the doctor, asked for whatever meds that might have the side effect of calming his libido. He’d been given mild antidepressants, but even that hadn’t put much of a dent in the Dethklok-related miasmas Charles kept falling into at night. And he could feel the inevitable happening: with no other options left, the guys were all beginning to turn their attention towards Abigail. Even Nathan, but that did nothing to decrease the flood of humiliation Charles still felt whenever he thought about or saw the man. 

Still trying to calm the pounding in his chest, Charles slipped out of bed and made his way to the adjoining bathroom, hoping a shower might help. It wasn’t just his heart; his skin felt hot and tingly, he was lightheaded, and the room kept tilting alarmingly, as if his knees had been replaced with jelly while he was asleep. He tripped over the bathroom threshold and caught himself on the sink, the heels of his hands striking awkwardly on the metal edge as he dropped his head in consternation and...

... And saw the completely unexpected tent in his boxers. 

Charles stared, then steadied himself. “Well,” he said to himself. “That’s happening.” It hadn’t for so long, but even so he was amazed at himself for actually forgetting what waking up partly aroused felt like. He was just in the edge of deciding to get in the shower, turn the warm water on, and take care of it there when his phone started ringing in the other room. 

_ Duty calls _ , he thought, and turned on the sink tap to splash some cold water on his face before padding back into the bedroom. It was almost easier that way — just ignore it, ignore the strange anomaly and save himself the confusion of figuring out why it had happened, because that way madness lay. He’d thought the purgatory of no physical reactions to anything had been uncomfortable, but the hint of possibly emerging from it into something new was, at this point, inexplicably unsettling. Thank god he had the comfort of work to fall back on in these troubling times. 

Before answering the call, he checked the caller ID. It was Jomfru. All the tension in him changed abruptly from one kind to another, and he answered with a terse, “Yes?”

“I’ve decrypted more of the plans.” 

The voice sounded thin and crackling over the line. Normally one wouldn’t get reception even that good down here in the deepest, darkest crevice of the ocean floor, but Dethklok, and therefore Charles, had a lot of clever scientists at their employ. That’s that the booster buoys were for, each weighted to stay at a specific depths and pass along the signal, like a relay race to and from the surface. 

“The locations of the launch sites are still proving difficult, but other coordinates have emerged. One of them coincides with the Dethklok mine that was attacked earlier this year, and another at the oil rig site of the ill-fated Blood Ocean movie premiere. Apparently, one of the early stages of Falconback involved digging something up at these and three other sites.”

Frowning, Charles sat on the edge of the bed and pulling a notepad and pen from the bedside compartment to take notes. “Eastern central Texas and the Gulf of Mexico… where are the others?”

“Only one more in the United States, an abandoned nineteenth century lead mine in southwestern Wisconsin. The other two are a late eighteenth century titanium mine in the Opplandene region of Norway, and a thirteenth century iron mine near Hedemora in Sweden. I don’t know how well you can picture the geography,” Edgar added, “but those sites aren't terribly far from the birthplaces of each member of the band. One for each of them.”

Charles considered that. “That oil rig was several hundred miles off the coast of Florida… but I take your point. What were they looking for?”

This seemed to be the invitation Edgar had been waiting on. After a significant pause he said, “Impact deposits left by ancient meteors.” Another pause, for dramatic effect. When Charles didn’t react to the revelation, he continued with marginally less enthusiasm. “The most powerful of which being near the Gulf, where a sixty-five million year old impact is thought to have begun the firestorm and global dust cloud that drove the dinosaurs to extinction.”

Instantly, Charles thought of the Doomstar. Ishnifus hadn’t exactly given him details, but it was some sort of celestial body. There was probably an important connection there. 

“I see,” he said slowly. “That’s good work."

Five sites, five band members, five missiles. Five points of a pentagram. 

“The information is on its way to you through the secure servers, with detailed maps and historical notes from my personal research included,” Jomfru continued, unmoved by the token praise. He was, after all, still a prisoner. “And I’ve sent a copy by special courier to whoever else you have working on this in that undisclosed location, as per your instructions.”

Charles was too wrapped up in thought to reprimand him for getting a little lippy with that last bit. He noted distantly and with relief that the new influx of information had completely driven away the little problem he’d woken up with. 

After concluding the call and hanging up, he began his morning routine. By the time he made his way to the bridge, fully armored in a well-pressed suit and tie, his mind was clear and laser-focused on the fact that there was very little time left if they wanted to make the label’s deadline. Once that had been addressed for the day, he could finish translating the scraps Ishnifus had sent him and decide what steps to take next based on that and Jomfru’s new information. 

Charles took his seat in the captain’s chair, quite similar to the one in the command center back at Mordhaus, and swiveled to get a better look at the screen. Abigail was already at one of the front consoles, flicking expertly through the tracks Knubbler had engineered and looking like she hadn’t gotten much sleep recently. Her hair was tied up; the wet heat in the submarine really was getting to everyone. 

“How’s it coming?” Charles asked. 

Abigail glanced over her shoulder and gave him a slight nod, signifying either good morning or a general acknowledgment, then turned back to the screen. "Still not in love with the sound of these rooms,” she mused.  “Something about this sub is a little off... We need to re-record them in their own isolated space outside the sub.” She raised her voice slightly to address the entire room. “What can we do about that?"

A Klokateer to Charles’ left, on the level behind his chair, replied, "Seventeen point five nautical miles northwest, we found a sonically ideal guitar recording area. The only drawback is that it's in what we believe to be an active minefield. It's gonna take the majority of the crew to make this happen."

"Great,” Abigail replied. “Work towards that. And the drums?"

This time, Knubbler answered. "Well, we did some reconnaissance and we found an upward-inverted cave whose acoustics are the best we've ever heard in our entire lives."

"How soon can you make that happen?" she pressed. 

Knubbler’s mechanical eyes whirred softly as they narrowed in thought. "How much time do we have?"

It was time for Charles to cut in. "Very little. I fear my band is slowly losing their minds in this murky pit of sexual despair,” he said, speaking with an intimate knowledge that only the Dead Man could possess. “Good work, people. And, again, time is of the essence.” And then, for no particular reason, he added, “Tally-ho."

From there, things moved very quickly. 

~

It happened while Charles was in his small office with books sprawled open on almost every available surface. The yellowed scraps of prophecy were laid out on his desk next to an open notebook, where he scribbled and crossed out and reworked his translation of the trickier bits — which was most of them. But he was making progress, and a live feed of the recording in progress was being piped in over the room’s built in speakers. Everything was progressing. 

Until a blinding pressure inside his head made him drop the pen he was holding and sink back in his chair. The air felt suddenly all too oppressive, and he reached up to loosen his tie.

**_The heat was getting to everyone, even her. He felt the music pulsing around him, getting into his blood—_ **

Charles gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus on his work. He was so close to connecting the pieces he had puzzled out in the last month, so close to seeing the whole. Each of the three scraps was a different language, and yet they fit together in trionic. Where one left off, sometimes in mid-sentence, another picked up, and the rhythm of the syllables gave the clues for how they were meant to be joined. Where he’d thought in the first few months of the voyage that his translations were wrong, it was really just that each part taken without the others really was just gibberish. 

If this was how all individual prophets got their information, it was no wonder the world was so fucking confused all the time. 

**_He moved slowly, as though the recording booth was filled with water. Down here in the deep, maybe it was just the space remembering what it normally contained, without regard for the metal and air and flesh and bone that now occupied it instead. The heat, the static electricity that had been building for months crackled silently between them, drew him to her like a compass needle seeking north. And a thought swam through his head, slippery as an eel, that this would show Charles—_ **

“Not  _ now _ , Nathan,” Charles hissed under his breath, trying to push the frontman’s prescience down. He reached out and forced his fingers to close around the pen again. 

So close to completing the translation. His eyes caught on a mistake he’d made days ago, a wrong alignment due to mistranslating a particular word. As he made the corrections, his hands shook slightly and the metal of the ballpoint pen dragged deep grooves in the notebook paper, just short of tearing it. 

**_—This would show him for not being interested, what an asshole, apparently being interested in chicks more than dudes after all. Maybe he didn’t even think going down on a woman was gross. Maybe this was an opportunity to see what the hell was supposedly so great about it. Yeah. Fuck Charles—_ **

His nose was bleeding again. He grabbed a tissue with his free hand and held it, crumpled, to his face, but was too intent on the work before him to tilt his head back. A strange urgency had set in and it was making his heartbeat loud in his own ears, almost drowning out Pickles’ fevered drumming still coming through the speakers. 

**_He leaned down to kiss her, falling to his knees, hands sliding up thighs to hips to belt buckle and undoing it, dragging the businesslike slacks and even underwear down with hooked fingers by sheer force. Belatedly she lifted her hips to help, and that’s when he hesitated, that’s when it occurred to him this was just too real, but her hands were already in his hair, pushing his head down, and dammit he was committed to this now, no other choice—_ **

Charles took a hissing breath as something powerful jolted through him. The visions had never intruded on his waking life like this before, flooding him with crackling heat rather than mere pain. There was pain too but it was distant, an afterthought that faded quickly. 

**_Just do it already, come on. He let her push him down, closed his eyes, clumsily did what he was supposed to do. It wasn’t what he wanted, he’d never particularly wanted her anyway, but fuck being told by anyone (fuck you Pickles) that he wasn’t good enough to get someone (fuck you Charles)—_ **

It clicked. Charles stared at his notes, his breathing ragged, legs subtly spread as though yielding to some kind of pressure, and he knew what it meant. He wasn’t even sure if it was because of his recent studies or if this was another, previously undiscovered Dead Man’s talent. In a hoarse voice, he read aloud the translation aloud in English. 

“The earth quakes. The clouded sky breathes fire.” His voice was like thunder in his own ears. “Lava sprays onto the seas. The oceans boil. The deserts freeze...”

**_She was warm. Slick. His tongue was starting to get tired. He felt a million miles away but still present at the same time—_ **

“Masses flee into the streets. Meteors fly with magnetized heat. Crush and take human deceivers. Try the souls of the non-believers...”

**_Something was building in him, something that strengthened with every gasp and moan he heard, and it was as if, behind those sounds, there was something else beconning. An important discovery on the verge of being unveiled. He focused on that with a vengeance—_ **

“Smashing, killing, devouring all. No one is saved if the chosen fall...”

**_Thighs tensed and just barely managed not to clamp around his head, the hands in his hair tightening spasmodically—_ **

“Sweating, bleeding, your eyes go wide. The earth is ending, it's about to collide. The clouds part, the world goes black. The Doomstar speeds forth for its final atta— AH!”

The spell broke as the cry ripped forth from him and Charles collapsed back, hardly aware that he had been leaning rigidly over his notes just a moment before. The headache was gone, the tissue he’d grabbed to stem his nosebleed lying forgotten on the floor. He felt boneless in a way that it took him several long, languid minutes to place. 

When his lagging brain finally made the connection, he glanced down at his lap and saw not a tent but a spreading damp. 

Well. That had happened. 

It took him a long time to regain his faculties, and longer to muster up the  _ desire _ to move. 

He’d always wanted Nathan; dead or not, the man had never stopped being on his mind. At first, after he’d returned from his nine month absence, it had stung a little every time Nathan had seemed not to want him around. On the night the liquid master had been destroyed, it had comforted him a little to realize that he wasn’t the only one receiving cryptic visions, even if Nathan hadn’t wanted to talk about them. Every time the man had shown any hint of caring — unexpected breakfasts sent his way, drinks and relaxation forced upon him — he had relented without any real resistance. 

So in some ways, he couldn’t blame Abigail. If it had been him... Oh hell, it  _ had _ been him and he’d let the opportunity pass him by, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t wanted it. If he had been himself, if he hadn’t been in some kind of mystic stasis where the whole world was moving along with ease but he could only stand still, Nathan pushing him against a wall to make out and grope each other would have made his life, even though he might have been inclined to feel guilty about it afterwards. And of course it made sense that, after being rejected, the frontman would move on to the next half-way responsive person he could find. But Charles had expected better of her, he told himself, and a contract was a contract, so now he would have to fire her as soon as the album was finished... It had nothing to do with the low, bitter simmer of jealousy churning away in the pit of his stomach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a friendly reminder that directly using bits of Dethklok songs in place of thinking of new, cleverly worded prophesies is a THING I DO. 
> 
> So yeah, keep Comet Song in mind for future chapters.


End file.
